


Milestones

by andloawhatsit



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Boys Kissing, Bucky Barnes Feels, Exit Fic, Falling In Love, Forgiveness, Ice Skating, Identity, Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, Mid-Twenties Crisis, Parent-Child Relationship, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Personal Growth, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Posthuman, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Recovery, Remember the Calypso!, Sadist Rumlow, Science, Secret Marriage, Secrets, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, wanting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 16:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 54,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3698444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andloawhatsit/pseuds/andloawhatsit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brooklyn 1918 to Brooklyn 2015: In which Steve questions his humanity, has a mid-twenties crisis (though he doesn’t call it that), makes friends, falls in love again, and slowly learns that he doesn’t need to live in the past to honour his memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Count Your Blessings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bisexualstevenrogers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualstevenrogers/gifts).



> NOTES:  
> With special thanks to bisexualstevenrogers, my beta-reader. <3 
> 
> This is a soulmates AU, written for bisexualstevenrogers to explore what this kind of universe would look like in the day-to-day—that is, the idea of soulmates against our actual world and histories—as well as what it might mean for someone like Steve or Bucky, who have had their bodies altered and subjected to someone else’s control. For them, I think, the idea of soulmates and soulmate tattoos—which direct you without your permission—can really highlight how much they struggle for their individuality and personal freedom (and to sort themselves out in the 21st-century).
> 
> Of course, I welcome all comments. Particularly, as I'm someone who isn't Jewish but has tried to do very careful, thorough research, please feel free to let me know of any issues. You can also check out the last "chapter" for references, more notes, and links. Thanks! You can also find me on Tumblr as andloawhatsit.
> 
> SPECIFIC CONTENT WARNINGS:
> 
> A past abusive relationship is referred to multiple times, though not in any explicit detail or in extensive scenes. 
> 
> There are three references to self-harm, though again, not in explicit detail or extensive scenes. You can avoid them by skipping (1) Between "'Whatever you want,' says Steve" and "March 1930"; (2) Between "He lifted his gaze to the camera" and "Bucky accepted the offered plastic cup"; and (3) Between "Those were good days" and "The next time Steve and Bucky visit the café."

 

“Why assume that soulmates must always be sexual, or always romantic, that these two things must go hand-in-hand like a dutiful couple down from the wedding altar? In our prehistoric days, no doubt, we came together this way—combining our resources to advance the species—but what need is there in these times to go forth and multiply _unless you desire it_? Can your soulmate not be your best friend, your business partner, your bit on the side, the third person (or the fourth) to share your lover’s bed? You _can_ fuck, sure, but _must_ you? Do you not have more than one person’s-worth to give? If you love them, if their Mark is on you, whoever you are, isn’t that enough? Sisters and brothers, we don’t know what comes next: Free yourselves to love.”

_— From an anonymous leaflet distributed throughout New York City in the summer of 1969_

 

“Here is a New York City secret treasure for you: Get on the 6 train and stay on board past the last stop. That means after everyone else has gotten off, stay put. The train reenters the darkness of the subway tunnel to loop around and restart its route, and as it does, you can catch a brief glimpse of New York’s forgotten history: A ghost station, the now empty City Hall subway stop. Built in 1904 to look like a miniature Grand Central, it was once the most beautiful station in New York: It had brass fixtures, vaulted arches, and skylights, but in 1945, falling into disrepair and deemed too expensive to renovate for modern trains, those skylights were boarded up. If you think about it, glimpses of the past, signposts marking what once was, are relatively few. What once was just _isn’t_ anymore, so it’s easy to forget that it ever was, and sometimes we even forget that we’ve forgotten… We just tell ourselves the same stories over and over again, because it’s more convenient. We’re trying to make it through the day. You need, basically, enough information about the past not to get lost in time.”

_— From Jonathan’s Goldstein’s “WireTap”(27 March 2015)_

 

**Present Day** ****

**New York City**

**[ — — — ]**

 

Steve sits in front of a carafe of black coffee, hands flat on his kitchen table, and tries to calm the pain in his stomach, his heart’s flutter, the bleach-wash of dread that chills him when he thinks about these things. _Confront it_ , he tells himself. _Figure out what you’re feeling, then put it away._ He spills when he tries to pour, then puts the pot down, abandoning both his quarter-filled mug and the dark splotch soaking the wood-grain.

_That looks a lot like blood._

_Don’t be ridiculous._

Agent Thirteen—Sharon Carter—is passing through New York, and though she’s an extension of Peg, he could never refuse her, he still remembers the last time they met: Him striding through the Triskelion hall and refusing to meet her eye, humiliated that it was almost certainly a matter of SHIELD record (and now on the Internet, no doubt) that he’d struck out attempting to woo her with the prospect of a washing machine. Even the _idea_ … He winces. For years he’d washed his own clothes in a tub that doubled when covered as the kitchen table, but he doesn’t expect Sharon, nor anyone else in this time, this place, to understand. Poverty is far from extinct, yet still abstract to so many he meets. Steve groans, thinking of his Mark, the words climbing his calf—the first words he and Peg spoke to each other, once he got over being so shy—and the soulmate secrets they never told. He should wipe up the table, but doesn’t move.

_Embarrassed_ , he thinks. _That’s it, you’re embarrassed._

_That’s not it._

_You never grew up. You’re too grown up. What are you?_

 

Even visiting Peg all those times, he hadn’t known about Sharon. _My aunt_ , she’d said. _She’s an insomniac._ ‘Tasha hadn’t known the connection either—He’d checked. After she handed him Bucky’s KGB file in the cemetery, he asked point-blank: Did she know about Sharon when she pressed him to ask her out?

“I’d only heard you talk about her, this pretty nurse next door,” ‘Tasha said, “so I couldn’t recognise her. I didn’t know.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Fury’s compartmentalisation at work again."

After that, one night in Bucharest, Steve and Sam always two steps behind Bucky, Steve had lost his cool—Panicked and all in a lather, he woke Sam in the night and asked, “Did you work for SHIELD?”

“What? No.” Groggy, Sam rubbed his eyes to ward off the bedside lamp’s invasive flicker. “Dude, I told you: No one’s giving me orders again.”

“Sorry,” said Steve, who then turned out the light and lay heavily on his own bed, blinking furiously. “Sorry.”

From across the room, Sam said, “Why do you ask?”

“It sounds paranoid,” said Steve, still blinking and concentrating on keeping his voice steady, “but SHIELD—They paid people to be around me, so—”

“Nobody’s paying me,” said Sam. “Nobody even offered. With me, you just got lucky.” 

Steve’s throat ached.

“Paranoia is an irrational behaviour.” 

Steve heard Sam sit up, so turned on his side to face him, the outline of his body, his bare chest, the concern in his crinkle-eyed smile all clear in Steve’s excellent night vision. “I know that,” he said.

“What I mean,” said Sam, “is that if your experiences have forced you to default to suspicion, then it’s sad and it’s a problem, but it’s not irrational, Steve, and it’s not paranoia.”

Steve couldn’t speak around the blockage in his throat. 

“The only other thing I’ll say for now,” said Sam, softly, still sitting up in bed, “is that it’s common for soldiers to experience feelings they later describe as paranoid.” He sighed. “I know _I_ did. ‘Cos it feels better, in the moment, to believe someone’s plotting against you than to think they’ve stopped paying attention altogether.”

 

_She knew_ , thinks Steve at his table. _She saw: Weekends in and the apartment’s heavy emptiness._ He’d swept each room for bugs as he packed to leave, but finding nothing proved nothing: SHIELD could easily have moved them first. _What else did she see, spying inside? The tumblers and wine glasses, bought by ‘Tasha and rarely used? The picture frames turned face-down when he couldn’t bear looking at them? The bed he often didn’t sleep in, much less anyone else? His painstaking progress—reading still challenged him—through the stories and novels Bucky had loved?_

“I have been violated,” he says aloud, testing the words in his mouth. But he can’t say that: Humiliating for him and cruel to her. 

_Did she see how he changed and what he did when guests did come round, glasses carefully posed in the sink for ‘Tasha’s benefit, or his few photographs of Bucky and Peg and the Howlies put away when Brock Rumlow came by, because Steve was not a slave to the past and if Rumlow could be something he could have, something secret, only for himself, then—_

He whips his cup against the wall, shattering it against the backsplash. Coffee runs down the tile. _She knew_ , he thinks. _They saw everything. They saw when Rumlow came at night and left in the morning._

“And they would have done something if it was really bad,” he says, aloud again. “So: It wasn’t really bad, Rogers. So: Relax.” The buzzer sounds, Steve hastily sweeps ceramic into the dustpan, then sponges the tile and the tabletop before he straightens his shirt, steadies his breathing (he names his family in succession, round and round, _Joseph, Sarah, Steven_ ), and lets Sharon up.

 

She lingers by the door, fidgeting with her shoulder-bag until Steve shoos her into the living room. He’d swept through earlier that morning, whisking away anything personal, clearing away the computer parts he’d been tinkering with, the schematics and the beginner’s guides, the tablet running a string of YouTube how-tos, determined to provide no easy hints into his character or his pastimes since SHIELD’s collapse. The apartment itself is really too large for one person, but he doesn’t want to share, particular about his privacy. Still, while by himself he could never fill it, he understands that a New York apartment is a contemporary city kid’s milestone dream. _A distant one_ , he thinks, _the kind of rent people charge these days_.)

Sharon sits on the edge of his couch and Steve envies her professional composure. “I understand why you’re angry with me,” she says.

“Mmhmm,” says Steve. The air is still and the room silent. Seated next to her, he mimics her pose, trying to make her uncomfortable, already having closed the windows and turned off the radio. As he thinks on this, though, he’s embarrassed and thinks Sarah would be disappointed, so he slumps back, uncomfortable himself. His sketchbook pokes out from beneath the couch, but he nudges it back with his toe.

“But,” says Sharon, “I wanted to talk to you about Aunt Peggy, so I thought we could put all that—”

“Is she alright?” Steve blurts. His heart pounds. Objectively he knows that if anything had happened to her, he would know—That their soulmate bond would echo in his own body: She’d had pneumonia in the fall, for instance, and even halfway round the world, he’d felt the ghost of it in his lungs. Still—

“She’s fine,” says Sharon. “We’ve been thinking about what you said.”

He bites back, “ _Finally_.” Peg’s full name, address, and work history had been published when the SHIELD files dropped, and Steve had swallowed his pride long enough to call Sharon and ask—plead, even—that the family talk to Peg and her doctors about moving her. 

“It’s a big move,” says Sharon, defensive. “You know that. We wanted to wait until we got the doctor’s all-clear, but she’s coming out here, to a clinic in Connecticut. The one in DC—She wanted it for SHIELD’s sake, but that hardly matters, now, and she’s excited about being near New York again and most of the family’s out here.”

“I’m not her family,” says Steve. “I have no say.” He frowns. “I only thought it’d be better, safer, if she was—”

“Off the grid,” says Sharon. “I know. Took me longer to get the rest of the family on board. I—” She plucks at her pant-leg, then hands him a card. “I’m headed back to Langley tomorrow, but I wanted you to know where to visit.” 

“You didn’t have to come all the way to Brooklyn for that,” says Steve, brusque. “I’m told there’s this marvellous invention called, whatsit, _electronic mail_?”

Sharon looks down, flushed, but ignores him, digging in her bag to fish out a large brown envelope, sealed. “I was talking with Aunt Peggy, and you know, she really surprised me. We were collecting her things for the move, she didn’t want anything to get lost, and she pulls this out. Says it’s for you, she’s been saving it and I have to give it to you.”

Steve takes the envelope without comment or thanks, and holding it unopened in his lap he remembers pushing a small box toward Peg. Written over the sealed flap in Peg’s spiky hand are the words, _Count your blessings._

“Does that mean something to you.”

“Not really.” _Yes._ “It’s just something she used to say.”

“I’m sorry, Steve—” But Sharon must see his face tighten, because she corrects herself. “Captain Rogers, I’m—”

“You were just doing your job, Agent,” he says. Then, meanly, “Heard that a lot during the War.” She colours, face twisted with anger, and Steve winces, having basically called her a Nazi, _which was completely uncalled for, Rogers, what the hell is wrong with you, can’t even hold down a basic conversation—_

“I fought for that job,” she says.

Steve jerks his head up, gaping at her. He can’t think why anyone would _want_ to surveil him—He never _did_ anything. “Excuse me?”

“Called in favours,” says Sharon. “Wrangled an appeal with Director Fury when they gave it to Rollins first, dropped Aunt Peggy’s name, which I had never done, took a pay-cut—And I was already paid less than the men.”

“But,” says Steve. “Why—I—”

“Because the first thing I tried to do was stop it,” says Sharon, “and when that didn’t work and I knew it would be somebody whether I wanted it or not—Then I knew it had to be me. Better me, I thought, and I still do, then anyone else.” She stands suddenly. “I should go.”

“Sharon—” But Steve has nothing to say. He sees the ugly choice he made, and why, and how she bears its weight, and he’s filled with grudging respect. He walks her to the door, where she suddenly rounds on him and says, “There’s something else, I have to tell you or I’d—” She stares, like she’s willing him to understand, but the signal is lost. “I didn’t know about the strike team.”

Steve’s stomach flips. _Don’t think about him, Rumlow, don’t._ “Of course not, no one did. That’s the point.”

“I didn’t know.”

“This is not—”

“He’s not in any report of mine,” says Sharon, overriding Steve’s interjection. “I left him out, lied by omission, you seemed, _seemed_ so happy. It didn’t seem right—” She looks like she’s about to cry. “It’s not in the info-dump, because it was never written down. My call.”

“You have done your job,” says Steve, stepping forward to push her out, “but this is none of your g-ddamn business.”

“Steve—Captain—”

But he closes the door. Sinks to the floor and puts his head in his hands.He wonders what’s in Peg’s envelope, what she could have saved for him that she would not have already shared. He thinks he should buy another set of cups. He’s almost out.

 

**November 1944**

**London**

**Marriage**

 

She was a silhouette against the splintered doorframe, the door itself knocked off its hinges, and her shoes were scuffed with ash. 

“Morita told me where you’d gone. He’s worried about you—We all are.”

Steve wiped his nose with his cuff, too exhausted to be embarrassed that she’d caught him crying and too miserable to stop. 

“Allow Sergeant Barnes the dignity of his choice,” she said. “He damn well must have thought you were worth it.”

“If he did, he thought wrong.” Steve pushed the bottle toward Peg; it did nothing for him, but he thought she might want a bit. The tiny box he’d carried for ages was in his pocket, carefully stowed, but still he patted the fabric to check. 

“He didn’t,” said Peg, and settled into the chair next to his after a half-hearted attempt to brush away the dust and crumbs of rubble. She kicked a blackened doorknob out of the way. “I didn’t say he thought you were perfect—He _knew_ you weren’t perfect. He liked you anyway.”

Steve looked away, embarrassed.

“Don’t pretend I’m not telling you the truth,” said Peg. “He liked you anyway, that’s the point. You don’t need someone who thinks you're perfect; you need someone who knows you’re only a man. And Steve— _I_ like you anyway.” She poured an inch into his glass, then drank it. “Very much.” Looking around the room, taking in the shattered glass, the splintered furniture, the stink of fuel and smoke and spilled alcohol, she said, “One day, I'm going to show you this city properly. I used to come here with friends, dancing on Saturdays. We’ll dance, Steve, and we’ll walk in Green Park, and I’ll show you my parents’ house in Chelsea, and the lights at night, when we can turn them on again.”

Steve thought about Brooklyn, his friends there and the empty apartment waiting for him, and he thought maybe he wouldn’t go back. If Brooklyn belonged to Bucky, to the memory of him, maybe London belonged to Peg—And the future. If they lived that long. He dug in his pocket, then pulled out the box, set it on the table, and said, “I don’t know how to—Prove it to you, but I’ve been carrying this in my pocket for so long.”

Peg put her hand over her mouth. 

“I wanted to ask,” he said. “I’ve been carrying it. I wanted—”

“Why didn’t you?”

Steve looked at the table. “I don’t know. Or—I do. I was afraid—Afraid you’d say no, even with our Marks, and that it was selfish of me, the war on… ”

Peg rubbed her mouth **.** “You weren’t—” She brushed back the hair that was loose around her face. “You weren’t waiting for Barnes?”

Steve had always been told that pre-Mark love was childish—That you grew out of it. He had never quite believed it, though the threat haunted the edges of his life, but neither had he ever thought he would love _two_ people as deeply as he did. “G-d help me,” he said, “I was not.” He bit his lip, feeling his face tugging toward tears again. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t,” she said. “I only suspected.The others don’t know, but the way he looked at you,Steve—That night, here. And I’m your soulmate: I _know_ you.”

“I couldn’t tell you about him, Peg,” said Steve. “It was his secret, too.”

“But that’s not the only reason.”

Steve shook his head. Of course it wasn’t; despite the comfort of his friends at home and even Sarah’s unwavering love, his trust wasn’t universal—There were people you told and people you didn’t, and the English girl so sparklingly out of your league that you wanted to marry? She was at the top of the list. He was still waiting for her to recoil from him, to realise the magnitude of his confession and withdraw for good. Though he knew she could file for soulmate annulment—a release from their Marks—on the grounds of his “indecency,” he trusted her not to report him and even, perhaps, to treat him with the respect she gave everyone who had earned it. He did not expect her still to love or want him. And Bucky had fallen—Bucky was gone, leaving Steve with only their secrets and an aching knot in his chest that refused to subside, plus no way to prove to Peg that he’d wanted to ask her all along. 

“Did you tell him about me?”

“After Krossberg.”

“Trying to have it both ways, were you?” Her voice was arch. “Keep both irons in the fire?”

“ _No_ ,” said Steve, unable to explain the mixture of shame and love and fear that had led to his many lies of omission, but Peg waved him silent.

“I was flippant, I apologise,” she said. “If you want me to believe you, all you have to do is tell me. Tell me you’ve been carrying it for three weeks, tell me you were too scared to ask, and I’ll believe you.”

He looked up into her face and felt her fingers close around his. “I _was_.” 

“Alright,” she said. She did not let go of his hand, but added, “There’s something else. Steve, I—” She fell silent.

“I want you to talk, to be able to talk to me,” he said, stumbling over his words in his urgency. “Peg, I could never have expected, never asked you to understand about me, and I want to give that back.”

“If you think I’m shocked by the nature of your relationship with Barnes,” said Peg, drily, “you are clearly unfamiliar with the members of the Women’s Army Corps, but Steve, listen to me: I hate that I have to ask this, but I must—I won’t—”

Steve tilted his head to the side, confused enough by Peg’s faltering to forget his own grief for a moment. “What is it?”

“I can’t be, I will not be, the agent of your, I don’t know, _transformation_ into someone the world finds acceptable.”

“Peg—“ 

“I will not be the woman on your arm to prove your manhood to the world, Mark or no Mark—There, it’s said.” She exhaled, a pained whoosh of breath. 

Steve pressed his leg against hers, hooking his foot around her ankle, pressing their Marks together. “It’s not like that,” he said. “I’m _telling_ you.” 

“I can’t be those things to you, Steve,” said Peg. “I can’t be a _thing_ to you—But I will be, I _want_ to be, your friend and your companion in this life.”

“I didn’t want you to think I was rushing,” said Steve, “or doing it for any other reason than—loving you. I’m honest, I’ll honour the Marks, but I… ” Marriage was a celebration, an announcement to the world of your Marks and that you were financially ready for adult life—it _rarely_ happened before twenty-one—but he _loved_ her, too. He nudged the box toward her. 

“Our generation hasn’t been granted the luxury of time,” said Peg. “If I can decide in minutes how best to dispose of the resources of a unit—And I do mean men, their lives and livelihoods—then I must be able to make decisions in my own life. I owe it to them, I think.” She opened the box. “You aren’t rushing me.”

“It was my mam’s,” said Steve. “I used to wear it on a chain, but I don’t—If I—I’ve been carrying it for three weeks. If something happens, I don’t want it—At the bottom of a Swiss cany—” His voice broke, but he swallowed and pressed on. “I want you to have it.”

“You’re not very good at proposing,” said Peg, “but I’m not very good at accepting, so I suppose that’s even more evidence we’re well-suited.”

In a burned-out pub, in the dark, in the depth of his grief, Steve laughed and was in love. The knot clenched in his chest, but still, he loved her. 

“A proposal’s only a question, you know,” she said. “Nothing to be scared of.”

“Easy for you to say,” said Steve, and knelt in the dirt. He put Sarah’s ring on her finger, then took the chain from his neck and handed that to her as well. “In case,” he said, “you don’t want to wear it out. Yet.”

“It isn’t that I want to hide, only that the SSR will put me on a desk—”

“And I don’t need to show anyone,” said Steve. “I just need you.” 

Peg kissed his forehead, then tugged him to his feet. “I’ll give you everything I have,” she said. “Just meet me there.”

They married the next day. They told no one, dressing in plain clothes and pulling strangers off the street for their witnesses, trusting that their names were as yet unremarkable. Peg wore Sarah’s ring on Steve’s chain and in lieu of one of his own until after the war, Steve kept the certificate in his jacket’s inside pocket, close to his heart. 

 

**Present Day**

**New York City**

**[ — — — ]**

 

That evening, curled into the corner of his couch, he picks at the envelope. When he’d first furnished the apartment, he hadn’t noticed until ‘Tasha was nearly engulfed by the armchair that he’d bought particularly large furniture: While his friends assumed it furniture to fit a super-soldier, Steve quickly realised he’d been trying, unconsciously, to recreate the proportions of the apartment he and Bucky had once shared. Oversized is comfortable, and feels familiar, more than the DC apartment that had been furnished for him. He sighs, then breaks the envelope’s seal, scattering photographs and a rosary—he is stunned to find _Sarah_ ’s rosary, he recognised it immediately—over the cushions. Peg’s writing catches his eye again, a note: _To my family: These have been held for Steve. They have never been exhibited and I would appreciate that that they remain so._

 

She’d never told anyone they married—Only said to him, in her room in DC, “What could I have done, Steve? The records office was destroyed in the Blitz and the only other certificate was in your pocket when the plane went down. I had no evidence and I wasn’t about to let them accuse me of lying—I couldn’t have borne it.”

“But you should have had the money, at least” Steve had protested, trying to be practical but inwardly furious at the very _idea_ of anyone suggesting Peg would _lie_.

“Oh, Steve,” she said. “I didn’t want your money.”

“I only meant—”

“I only wanted you.”

 

The snaps are wartime candids, taken in the short year they were all together, always Peg behind the camera, though always careful not to capture anything she shouldn’t. 

“You have the most famous faces in Europe,” she’d said, once. “But boys, if only they knew what you _really_ looked like. Pitiful!” At the time, they were wretchedly hungover and though Steve was the exception, it wasn’t for lack of trying. 

He’d forgotten the moment until he held the photograph in his hand. Left to right, face-down or chin-in-hands over a rough table formed of three planks of plywood balanced precariously on a stack of crates: Dugan, Morita, Jones, Falsworth, and Bucky, and at the end, him, smiling at the camera. (At her.) It doesn’t pain him to remember, though—Even the next one, a slightly out-of-focus close-up of Bucky, laughing, arms up and sleeves slipping down, shying away from her. He has so few pictures of his friends—certainly no unpublished ones—that he’s more than glad for them. With the envelope, Peg has given him back a piece of himself, something private, the quietude he chased in Rumlow and never found. She always knew what to do.

 

And she’d said it to him after Dr. Erskine was killed, when Steve stood barefoot on the dock over the froth-mouthed Hydra spy and whispered, thinking no one could hear him, though his own voice was too loud in his post-serum ears. “What am I going to do now?”

“Count your blessings,” she’d said, voice firm though her eyes were red. Streaks of dirt and blood ran down her cheek. “You’re alive, I’m alive, and we’re going to make this right.”

 

**December 2014**

**New York City**

**Coming Out**

 

After six months’ fruitless searching for Bucky, Steve was at the end of his rope—disappointed and exhausted when in early November in a Paris bedsit, Sam put his foot down and insisted not only that they return to the States to regroup, but that they go _home._

Which is he how ended up spending Christmas not in his new apartment—though Tony had offered him a floor at Stark Tower, Steve preferred the place that Sam had helped him find—but at Sam’s grandmother’s in Harlem, surrounded by the noisiest family he’d encountered since the Barneses were last together. He also got a cheerful <meRRY CRIMBO rachael says hAPPPY HANUKKAH> text from Ashleigh, the waitress from the café below the Tower that he’d begun visiting again; a phone call from ‘Tasha and Clint; an organic food basket from Bruce and Betty (“I don’t know what this is,” he said, holding an ovoid, green _something_ , until one of the younger Wilsons said, “It’s an _avocado_ ”); and an email from Sharon, saying she couldn’t make it out until New Year’s and he shouldn’t stay away from Peg on her account. 

He reigned in his panic in the face of such kindness, but he could only manage for so long, and on Christmas afternoon, as Sam drove him to Peg’s clinic in Connecticut, he blurted, “I didn’t get anyone _anything_. I didn’t even do cards, or emails, or anything for your family, or—Oh shit, for _you_ , or—”

“Relax,” said Sam. “It’s cool.”

“I have failed,” said Steve.

“You exaggerate.”

“I do not,” he said, indignant.

Sam turned the radio down. “Listen, you’ve been on the road for half a year and before that, you were in the hospital after getting punched inside out. Trust me when I say nobody expects anything from you.”

“Thanks a bunch.”

Sam winced. “Okay, that sounded bad. What I mean is that Christmas isn’t only a holiday, here. It’s an excuse for your friends to treat you the way we’ve wanted to for ages, but knew you wouldn’t accept.”

Steve blushed and turned the radio back up.

“Gifts can be a burden or create an obligation, and that’s _not_ cool, but I don’t think that’s what’s happening here.” Sam darted a look at Steve. “The gift you can give them—and me—is to accept it.”

“I still feel like a jerk.” ( _You’re a punk. Jerk._ )

“So invite us over for dinner in the new year, once you’re settled again.

“After we find Bucky.”

Sam’s smile flickered so quickly that Steve wasn’t sure if it had faded at all. “Yeah,” he said. “After that.”

 

Peg’s children and grandchildren—and great-grandchildren?—were with her and Steve’s heart leapt to his throat. He turned to leave before he was spotted, but Sam blocked his path.

“ _Wait_ ,” he said.

“ _Move_ ,” said Steve, growl in his voice, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants.

Before their stand-off ended, though, one of the grandchildren spotted him, darted over, and grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the family huddle. He thought of them all as Carters, not remembering—or, if he was honest, having expended much effort to learn—her husband’s surname. _Could have been Rogers_ , he thought. _Could have been our life._ But Peg smiled at him, just at him, while the kids launched their own fumbling Christmas recital, piano and voice, and Steve would never tell his friends, but that look was his greatest gift. 

 

On New Year’s Eve, the Wilsons opened dozens of Christmas crackers and played charades for hours (“I didn’t think anyone still played charades,” said Steve. “We are an exceptional family,” said Sam.) The countdown to midnight, though, found him on the balcony with Sam while the others gathered round the television to watch the ball drop. 

_Ten, nine—_

Steve was afraid, but it was a glowing, happy kind of fear. He hardly recognised it, that bubbling anticipation. He had a plan. “Hey, Sam?”

Sam turned toward his name, then handed him a glass of champagne.

“It’s tradition,” said Steve, “and it’s good luck,”— _Seven, six_ —“But obviously, it’s good manners to ask first, so. I’m.” He blinked. “I’m going to kiss you, alright?”

Sam tilted his head to the side, then nodded.

Steve’s hands shook with anticipation, but happiness, not tension, was in his belly. He had never felt like this with Rumlow, whose ugly spectre had _no place_ in his thoughts that night. He wanted it to be good.

_Three, two—_  

Sam lifted himself on his toes, lightly, and Steve put one hand against his cheek, gently, and kissed his mouth, so grateful that their paths had crossed in the DC dawn. “Happy New Year,” he said, after. 

“Same to you,” says Sam. 

“Thank you for coming with me.” He wondered if Sam had known—about him. He had been cautious in the thirties and forties, with no intention of ending up in jail, but never shy or secretive around his friends, while in this new millennium, he had become embarrassed of himself. His coworkers and friends never referred to his sexuality, much less his bisexuality (the word was new to him, but _right_ ; at last a word that knew he might love more than soulmate conventions allowed) and even ‘Tasha—not knowing, of course, that he’d matched and lost long ago, nor that he would have refused even a man, anyway—had only ever tried to set him up with girls. (He remembered a brutal argument with Bucky, just days before the train: _You telling me you think that supersoldier magic potion cured you of me?_ He hadn’t thought so, of course not, he could never, but had not been able to convince Bucky otherwise.) And after he’d been out of the ice a while, he had figured, for all people _said_ times had changed, that he was as taboo as ever.

He had thought it would be common knowledge, picked up or at least speculated by one of the hundreds of biographies, but while he had searched the historical records of everyone he once knew, he had never been able to look himself up, and elsewhere received no comment but for irrelevant press questions—What did he look for in a woman, had he met his soulmate, wouldn’t he let them sneak a peek at his Mark? He knew that some historians speculated that he and Peg were soulmates, but he knew, too, that it was only speculation. Peg’s identity as “Cap’s girl” had never been confirmed, even with the files-drop—Her work with the SSR and then with SHIELD had kept her name out of the record-books. Steve had even once heard a rumour that, of all people, _Private Lorraine_ was the woman in his compass-case photograph.

That New Year’s Eve, Sam was the first since he’d woken up to meet him entirely on his own terms, and the soft touch of his mouth, the kindness in him, strengthened Steve’s resolve to banish Rumlow to the past, permanently. He took a deep breath. It was 2015: He was alive, Peg was alive, Bucky was alive, and he was going to make things right. 

“This is going to make it sound like I didn’t like it,” said Sam, “and I did, really, it’s—”

“Don’t worry,” said Steve, and he wasn’t worried. A weight had lifted from his chest. “I wasn’t, whatsit, hitting on you.” He blinked. “I mean, I wasn’t, um, _not_ —I mean, that’d be great, obviously, because you are—But I am—Um—”

“ _Adorable_ ,” said Sam. “You are adorable. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. I don’t know how you feel about— _things_ outside soulmate bounds. Even now, people feel differently about what’s—appropriate, and I don't know what it was like back in the day.” 

Sam was beautifully considerate. ( _This sort of thing gives you a little bad-boy thrill, I bet,_ Rumlow had said. The man had loved transgression—Not for its own sake or for personal freedom, but pushing it on others. _It does me_.)

“It was—” Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “If you were serious with someone outside soulmates, you didn’t advertise it—Not outside your closest friends.” _Bucky, Jackie, Marjorie._ “And even then—Um. I wasn’t—Terrible, was I?”

Neither have them had drunk their champagne, so Sam took Steve’s glass and set both delicately in the corner of the balcony. “No,” he said. “You were not.” He rubbed his jaw, clearly considering something, and said, “Steve?”

Steve pulled back, into himself. “Yeah?”

“Hear me out, okay? I know it’s a really personal thing, but—”

“Yeah?” 

“But we road-tripped around Europe together, buddy. Six months, pretty close quarters, and I never saw your Mark for more than a flash at a time.”

“Sam—”

Sam held up his hand. “Hear me out, please.”

Steve nodded. He trusted Sam.

“I told you about Riley,” he said. “And we weren’t together, but he was my best friend, and you know I had a thing with that ex-KGB contact of Natasha’s while we were in Romania, and that I haven’t found my soulmate yet—And I don’t mean you owe me, like this is truth-or-dare, but you never talked about or looked at anyone, or—And maybe that’s what you want, for privacy or because you don’t feel that way about anyone, ever, and that’s okay, too, but sometimes—” Sam paused, searching Steve’s face, and because Steve didn’t know what for, he couldn’t try to hide it. “It seems like you wanted to—Talk.”

Steve’s hands shook.

Sam shrugged. “Look, this is heavier than I wanted it to be, but I wanted to put it out there. You don’t have to say anything, but I wanted to give you an opening. It’s okay to mourn them, your soulmate, if you missed them back then and to look for someone else, now.” 

One’s Mark faded when their soulmate died, a line cutting through the words or symbols, but while there had always been sympathy for the widowed and for those who missed their soulmates—encouragement, even, to branch out again—the court of public opinion was far less merciful for the unmatched and for those who made ‘undesirable’ pairs, though the one-sided, those whose matches were not reciprocated, were largely pitied. Steve’s Mark, of course, was as bright as ever, and would be as long as Peg was breathing, but only they knew that. He didn’t know what her Mark had looked like while he was on ice and hadn’t asked; he might as well have been dead. 

But if there was ever someone, there and then, that Steve could bear, even _want_ , to tell, it was Sam. He closed his eyes, then blurted, “I did find them, her, I found her, we found each other.” He looked up, bracing himself.

Sam’s eyes widened. “Steve! Oh my G-d, oh my G-d—Did you? Are they? Is your soulmate a millennial? Did the Mark know to _wait_ for you?”

“No, _no_ ,” said Steve, though he smiled at his friend’s eager misunderstanding. “Before. It’s—It’s Peg.” He had thought, for some time, that maybe she wouldn’t mind him saying, not anymore, not to a friend, but he had been so frightened. Not anymore. The knot in his chest loosened a bit more. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore, right now, but—I’m glad—” He swallowed, his mouth dry. Sam passed him his champagne once more and Steve downed the lot, feeling the bubbles in his nose. “Thanks for asking.”

Sam nodded. “Thanks for stopping me when you weren’t okay.”

“Yeah.” Steve shifted from foot to foot. His hair had been short for years, but still he nearly moved to brush his bangs from his forehead. His old nervous habit. 

Sam raised an eyebrow. “So, uh. One more for the road?”

“Yes, _please_ ,” said Steve, not caring how desperate he sounds.

“ _Adorable_ ,” said Sam again, and again, Steve kissed him, filled with wonder: Sam was not disgusted that Steve wanted to kiss him, though he knew Steve's soulmate was a woman, and living. He understood that Steve’s love was not constrained by convention and that he had not stepped out on Peg so much as been stolen from her—That the emptiness in place of what they might have had was the ache of lost potential, not something Steve would have given up if he had only had the choice. Sam knew that Steve loved her, that his heart was broken in 1944, and if Steve kept Bucky to himself, even then—If he didn’t tell that heartbreak came knocking twice that year, nor who else he let down… Well, he couldn’t help that.

"You've been very brave," said Sam. 

"I've just been myself," said Steve, "which isn't the same thing and also usually a bad decision." 

 

Before they went inside, Steve took a deep breath and acknowledged what they had both avoided since their plane touched down a month before. “He doesn’t want me to find him and no matter the scraps of a trail he leaves, until he _does_ want, I’m not going to.”

“What,” said Sam, cautious, “do you want to do?”

“I _want_ to find him,” said Steve. _Make sure he’s alright, take care of him, help him the way I didn’t before, the way he needs, I think, because I know what it's like to be lost in this world._ “But I suppose—” Giving up goes against the core of him, but he tried not think of it as _giving up_ , per se. “I’ll have to wait for him.”

“The best thing to do when you’re lost,” said Sam, “is sit tight and wait for someone to find you. But that doesn’t mean you can put everything on hold, ‘kay?”

In a flash of openness and courage, Steve knelt, rucked up his pant-leg, and showed Sam his Mark. “The thing is,” he said. “I don’t know which of us is lost. I just hope he knows I’ve been looking, that he’s—” _Alright. Please, G-d, let him be safe._

 

**Present Day**

**New York City**

**[ — — — ]**

 

Separate from his regular workout routine, Tuesdays and Thursdays were for the gym, and Mondays and Fridays blocked off for museums and galleries, but Wednesdays were simply for getting out of the house. He had been restless, eager for anything remotely familiar as he picked up a semi-regular routine after his November return,and while he hadn’t expected her to still work there, much less for her to remember him—after all, it had been almost three years since the Chitauri—he had wondered… And when he settled into a table near a condensation-fogged window, he had looked up to find _her_ holding a menu. 

“It’s you!” 

“Uhhh,” Steve had said, caught-out. 

“Sorry,” she said, blushing. “I remember you, from before. Before the Battle, I mean.”

“Oh, yeah, um—Ashleigh, right,” said Steve, too quickly, and he gripped his pant-leg to keep from trying to brush his non-existent bangs from his eyes. 

She smiled wider and said “Yeah! Black coffee and… Hmm, cinnamon roll?”

He nodded, she whisked herself away, and he nursed his coffee for over an hour, content in the café’s noisy warmth, a jovial bustle nothing to do with him, thinking that as far as habits went, this would perhaps not be a bad one. 

He soon learned that Ashleigh was in her fourth year at NYU, though in her late twenties—like him, though his mind boggled at that—since she had started late after (as she put it) “fucking around.” She lived with her girlfriend in Brooklyn and had proudly shown Steve her Mark, the words _Fall Out Boy has been, like, so important to me_ stamped in block letters across the back of her neck. “Rachael’s embarrassed by it, now,” she said, “but I love it. It’s very her, the first thing she said to me, and I think it’s wonderful to be passionate about things, don’t you?” She was passionate about her subject, classics, though she had been embarrassed to admit it, blushingly conceding that the job prospects were terrible. From what Steve could see, remembering the Depression as he did, they weren’t particularly good for anyone, and when he told her about art school, his two desperate semesters—better that than nothing—she had softened, then asked him if he’d go back. He had never considered it, thinking that ship sailed, and remembered…

 

On his last day of classes, Steve had pushed out the front door, head down, fumbling with the catch on his portfolio case, then looked up to find Bucky leaning against the wall. 

“Finished early today,” he said, nonchalant. “Thought I’d come find you.”

Steve fussed with his case and said nothing. 

One of his classmates walked by, clapped him on the shoulder, and said, “See you next semester, Rogers.”

“For sure,” said Steve, with a plastered-on smile. “See you later.” To Bucky, after the other man had gone, he said, “I know, I know, you don’t need to say it.”

Bucky did anyway. "Steve—You didn’t tell any of ‘em?”

“I don’t need to.” He pulled his papers from the case, then jammed them back in; it still wouldn’t latch. “A few months, they won’t even notice.”

“That’s not—”

“Forget it, okay?”

“I’m _sorry_ , is all, that you have to drop out.”

Steve looked away. It was plain that Bucky’s meeting him was more contrivance than convenience, checking up on him on a day he’d been dreading—And still the damn case wouldn’t close. “Don't be. I only ever meant to do a year. All the scholarship covered, anyway. I’m not a brainiac like you, Buck—I don’t even like school.” It wasn’t just the money, either, though that was a big part of it: Steve couldn't work _and_ go to school _and_ deal with the pain his body put him through, no matter how stubborn he was. 

“You love art.”

“ _You_ love school. It should have been you.” 

Despite his own let-downs, Bucky joked, “What, here?” He pushed off from the wall. “Will you just be disappointed? I know you’re disappointed.”

“I’m not disappointed,” said Steve. “It’s fine, and—” The clasp snapped off in his hand. He threw the case to the ground, then. “Fuck!” He put his hand over his eyes. “Fuck.”

Bucky bent, retrieved the case and tucked it under his left arm, then stood and put his other arm around Steve’s shoulders. Gave him a squeeze, then stepped back. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

Steve tilted his head back and groaned with frustration, but all the same, he flicked Bucky’s side, lightly—Their secret kiss when they were out and about.

Bucky flicked his arm. “I’m starving,” he said, gently. “So come on and I’ll make you supper.”

They had walked on and as they went, Steve dug in his pocket to fish out a few coins for a collection bucket held by one of the art models striking for improved wages and conditions. He’d gone back to collect his things, but in solidarity, he hadn't gone to class since they started picketing.

 

There in the café in 2015, remembering, he encouraged Ashleigh to continue. His own actions had always been shaped by duty and responsibility—to his mother, to Bucky, to Peg, to the Howlies, to the other men and women serving—and the idea that he _could_ pursue something so personal, much less that he _should_ , remains foreign to him. He didn’t know how to define himself, feeling better described by responsibility, the satisfaction of hard work and a wage, but in their own way, Ashleigh and Rachael reminded him so much of his old friends (he thought of them still: Marjorie, Jackie—and Bucky, of course) that Wednesday was a highlight of his week. 

 

***

 

The day after Sharon’s visit, Steve takes himself out for a consolation coffee and cinnamon roll, but his favourite snack—even at his regular stop beneath the Tower, though it’s a distance out of his way—is dry in his mouth. He picks it at, disconsolate, until Ashleigh swings into the seat across from him. 

She raises an eyebrow at his picked-at plate and Steve tries to muster the energy and courage to follow-through on what he’d been planning before Sharon turned up at his door. But still… A birthday party? At his age?

But he squares his shoulders, trying to be more open, and as Ashleigh refills his cup, blushes and invites both her and Rachael to his for the fourth of July. ‘Tasha and Clint are coming, as are Tony and Pepper, while Sam, Bruce, and Betty have promised to Skype in. An invitation is a perfectly reasonable thing to offer a friend. He readies himself for a polite rejection.

Instead, Ashleigh accepts with delight. “Yes, yes, _yes_ ,” she says. “That’s your birthday, right? Oh man, Rachael will be stoked, she _loves_ birthdays, this is awesome, we’ll bring booze.”

“Um—”

But she’s already on her way back to the kitchen, phone pressed to her ear, and though Steve can make out her conversation without significant strain, he concentrates instead on _not_ eavesdropping, humming tunelessly to himself,and catching only, “—quila? How _old_ are you?” before briskly shaking his head. _Stop listening_ , he thinks, fiercely. While he would never exploit his enhanced abilities at the expense of his friends (tempting as it can be when they forget that he can overhear conversations through doors and at impressive distances) he’s embarrassed by the power he holds. Freshly imprinted each time it happens, the realisation accentuates his difference from regular people, makes him seem like some distant demigod, when he’s never seen himself as so particularly different. What had begun in childhood as an obstinate insistence that he was as good as any other guy became, after the serum and the machine, an insistence that he hadn’t changed, not really—That he was no better than any man. He had barrelled through the war in a heightened state, a terrified and exultant delirium, high on oxygen and power, untouchable, telling himself it was the same for any soldier each time they cheated death. But it wasn’t true: No matter how many times he told himself he was the same old kid from Brooklyn, he wasn’t, and he knew it—Because like always, Bucky saw right through him.

 

At the café, he pays his bill, leaves a tip, and heads for the Tower. Avengers business. 

 

**November 1944**

**Swiss Alps**

**Heartbreak**

 

Steve had never been the best at holding his temper, but if Bucky would shut up and listen, if he would let Steve explain, they could sort this out, but—He opened and closed his mouth twice, then once more, groping for the words he wanted and settling on, “You think I’m happy about this?”

Which weren’t the words he wanted. Not at all.

Bucky glared, eyes lit with fury, and Steve stepped backward. “Of course you’re happy, you ass, you’re getting everything you’ve ever wanted, you found your _soulmate_ , why wouldn’t you be happy?”

The fight had been building for months, but each time it had nearly peaked, each time Steve was about to snap, Bucky shut down—Left it like pulling teeth to get more than a few words out of him for days, and then the whole thing started over. “You’re jealous,” said Steve. His voice was flat and he was sickeningly glad. Bucky should have been jealous. “You pitied me.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did—Admit it!”

Bucky shook his head, though to Steve’s eyes more a plea than a refutation. 

“You loved it,” said Steve, and he didn’t mind driving it home like a knife-point. “Will you just admit it? You loved it, that I needed you, that I couldn’t get by without you, that I tried to get by on my own and I couldn’t, and people looked at you and thought, _That James Barnes, such a saint, carrying that_ burden _around_.”

“You _know_ I never thought you were a burden—”

“But you never minded other people thinking it!” Steve clenched his teeth, malicious. “And now I’m not weak and you’re not special.”

“Fuck you,” said Bucky, who was no angel, but most times kept a reign on his cussing. He curled his fists.

Steve’s own were tight and his breathing fast, his heart racing. Dr. Erskine had said the formula would amplify everything—Was that why he was being such an asshole to his best friend, or was he just an asshole? Was this just him? Could he blame such abject cruelty on anything, on chemicals or drugs or war, or was it just him, throwing a tantrum and spitting out the words he knew would break Bucky’s heart, because could he not have his moment in the sun? Could Bucky realise, finally, how it felt to be second-best? What was so wrong with that? Steve thought his heart might stop—he remembered the hospital, himself as a child, slumped and seizing on the floor, theophylline overdose from a doctor who didn’t know better, (mis)treating his asthma and Bucky at his side, like always—and it took him a moment to hear, over the echo of his pulse and his skin’s buzzing, to hear Bucky’s words.

“—not jealous, Stevie, I’m—” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “It’s like you’ve forgotten—”

“I didn’t forget. You don’t understand, ‘cos it hasn’t happened to you yet.”

“Spare me the soulmate rhetoric.” Bucky ran his hands through his hair; he was shaking, he was so angry. “You promised—We promised we would never do that, if we got matched with someone else!”

“Listen to me, can you listen, please? Can you listen?” He dropped his voice; they were well off from where the others had made camp, but the air was clear and sound travelled. “Bucky, I’m—” He choked. “I’m scared.” That got Bucky’s attention. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I know it’s Peg, she’s my soulmate, we have the Marks, and I love her—” He knew it was painful, it hurt him too, but he needed Bucky to understand. Sarah’s ring was burning a hole in his pocket.“But is it real?”

Bucky threw back his head. “I’m not going to philosophise about the _nature of love_ with you.” He threw his hands up, like he could physically grapple with Steve’s question. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“But—” Steve was crushed. Bucky was so clever—He had been certain Bucky would know and desperate for him to say that everything would be okay, because he was the science junkie, the brainiac, the soulmate expert. Bucky knew everything. “But all the things you used to read, all the questions you used to ask.”

“What about it?”

“Everything about me is different,” said Steve. “Everything about me has changed.” He held out his ams and for all he was fully uniformed, he might as well have been naked, he felt so bare and devastated.

“I can tell,” said Bucky, rueful. He extended his hand and Steve saw he held Sarah's rosary. “You dropped this, by the way.” He snorted. “It is embarrassing that this Jewish boy is such a better Catholic than you. Moron.”

Steve took the beads, grateful, but was otherwise a dog with a bone. “But how much did it change me? Who am I supposed to be? I met her before the serum, but what if this isn’t how I’m supposed to feel? The serum was supposed to make me stronger, make me better, but I feel out of control as I ever did, except this time it’s not asthma whipping me, or ‘flu, or you know, a set of fucking stairs—But it’s my body and I can’t control it, it’s controlling me.”

“You’re not an animal—You have to make choices based on your impulses, and—”

“But how do I know I’m actually _choosing_ anything? That I’m not just chemicals—”

Bucky made a noise of frustration. “We’re _all_ just chemicals.”

“I loved you,” Steve shouted.

Never in a hundred years would Steve have expected Bucky, in any situation, to hit him, which was why Bucky punching him squarely in the face took him completely by surprise. So much, in fact, that he stumbled, fell backward, and hit the ground, skinning his elbow, and for the first time since he was a boy, he did not get back up. With blood in the back of his throat and trickling over his lip, he looked up at the cold, empty sky and at Bucky, who stood over him rubbing his knuckles.

“Where the fuck do you get off, _loved_ ,” said Bucky, spitting. “You telling me you think that supersoldier magic potion _cured_ you of me? Well, you lucky fucking duck. You all-American _hero_!”

“No,” gasped Steve, choking, coughing, his words thickened by his split lip and the blood in his mouth. “I didn’t mean _that_ —I’d never, Bucky.” He didn't sit up, waiting for Bucky to pull him up, wipe his face—Kiss him, even.

But Bucky just fell to his knees on the cold ground, saying, “Stevie, I’m sorry, babe, I’m so sorry, your nose, I—” He reached out…

But Steve rolled away. “I’m fine,” he said, and pushed himself up to his knees, then stood. “I’m fine.” He knew he ought to apologise, too, for the hurt he’d caused Bucky and the promises he’d broken, but the words didn’t fit in his mouth. He saw a dozen different routes his life might take, but he couldn't pick a single one. He had a ring in his pocket and he was going to ask Peg to marry him. At Bucky, he just stared.

Bucky stared back. He rubbed his left wrist. “I’ll _never—_ ” he began, then faltered. Swallowed. “And I’ll lose you, too.” Then he walked away.

 

Two days later, Gabe locked down a route for Zola’s train and they camped on a Swiss cliffside, waiting for morning and their next mission. While Bucky was on watch and the others asleep in a flanneled huddle, Steve crept up the bluff to find him. Bucky hadn’t spoken to him since their fight, not more than any good sergeant would to his CO. ( _I shouldn’t be his CO_ , thought Steve. _Or anybody’s. He lost so many men. I’m just another greenhorn, fucking up his life._ )

He tensed at Steve’s approach, but didn’t speak or move. Steve plunked down beside him and said, “Question for you.”

Bucky said nothing.

“What was that flick we saw, couple of years ago, maybe ’41?”

Bucky sighed, then said, “You’re gonna have to give me a bit more to work with.”

“With Carmen Miranda.”

Bucky cracked his knuckles.

“ _Havana_ something. You knew all the songs.” Bucky not only loved musicals—one of Steve’s greatest victories had been to once wrangle them two tickets for _This is the Army, Mr Jones_ —but was also hot for Alice Faye. Whatever the film was called, they’d seen it four times, the most they’d seen any film that didn’t star Molly Picon, the true queen of Bucky’s heart. There in the cold mountains, the music had been in Steve’s head for hours, but he couldn’t remember the title. 

“ _Weekend in Havana_ ,” said Bucky, dully

“Yeah! That’s the one.”

Bucky hummed softly to himself. “We should go,” he said.

“What? To Cuba?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

Steve could not, at that moment, imagine anywhere as warm and sunny as he supposed Havana was, but he shrugged and said, “Okay. I bet—” He was about to say, _I bet Peg would love it_ , but stopped himself. If Bucky saw through the stumble, he didn’t show it, and Steve finished, not too choppily, “—we could afford a real nice place there, now. Top of the line, high living.” He yawned.

“I should write Marjorie,” said Bucky. “About Jackie. I haven’t yet. You think?” He’d been saying so for months, but lifted a hand to forestall Steve’s pointing that out. “Don’t answer that.” 

Steve thought, _Well, Jackie’s not getting any deader._

“What would I write, even? ‘Dear Mrs. Meaney, your husband—’ Bucky stopped talking, then sang quietly, more to himself than as a showpiece. _How would you like to spend a weekend in Havana? How would you like to see the Caribbean shore?_  

It should have been funny, the Howlies’ ace sniper warbling a Carmen Miranda tune, but Steve’s laughter died in his throat. Ace sniper—How in the world did that happen?

Bucky paused, then patted his leg and said, “Come on, then. I won’t tell.”

“Buck—”

“Relax, punk. I am the paragon of virtue. Think I can’t tell you’re exhausted?”

Steve bit his lip 

“Come on,” said Bucky, and he was not pleading—He just knew Steve so very well. 

And so Steve shuffled his unfamiliar and unwieldy body until he lay on the cold ground, his head in Bucky’s lap, and exhaled heavily, washed over with relief. “I’m sorry. All I wanted—I wanted to get over here and be here and help. Be with you and watch your back.”

“I told you not to find her, remember?” Bucky stroked Steve’s hair and sang—absently, like not all of him was there. _You’ll hurry back to your office on Monday, but you won’t be the same anymore._ Then, casually: “Gabe went to college.” 

Steve knew the tone enough to prick up his ears: Bucky was full of wondering admiration. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Howards. In DC.”

“Not too shabby,” said Steve, honestly quite impressed. He’d gone through DC with the USO, before leaving for Europe.

“I could go, after, maybe. Try again—Do you—D’ya think?”

“Of course I think!”

“You think I’d get in? I mean—Not there, specifically. Just. Anywhere?”

“Anywhere you want,” said Steve. “You don’t want to work for Stark?”

“I don’t want to work for anyone.”

 

The next day, Bucky peered into the ravine below with narrowed eyes, then looked back at Steve. “This isn’t payback, is it?”

_Years and years,_ thought Steve. _All the good and bad we did to each other._ “I only owe you good things, Buck,” he said. “A world of ‘em.” He gripped the handles of the zipline and jumped, trusting Bucky to follow him. 

 

**Present Day**

**New York City**

**[ — — — ]**

 

Tony insists that it is un-American not to barbecue on the Fourth of July, while ‘Tasha insists that nobody wants hot food on such a stinking hot day anyway, suggesting lasagna—raw, she says, to save overheating the apartment.He rejoins, “None of your weird ‘health’ food, Romanoff,” but Pepper and Clint exchange a knowing look and raw lasagna it is, ‘Tasha delegating food prep to Steve, sauce-making to Clint, and supervisory responsibilities to herself. 

Steve sends Tony out to the balcony with a plate of hamburgers he’d prepared earlier. 

“Very diplomatic,” says Ashleigh.

He winks, smile quirking his face, then turns his attention back to his chopping board and to his tablet, through which Sam and Pepper are embroiled in an intensely competitive round of cribbage-by-video-link. (“First charades,” says Steve, incredulous. “Now cribbage.”)

 

The evening is very ordinary and pleases Steve very much. At his request, they have not brought him gifts, but donated—where they’re able—to a children’s library charity.

Ashleigh follows him into the kitchen, carrying the dishes Tony left on the balcony, and asks, “Any particular reason you chose that one?” 

Steve flicks the kettle on and instead of fabricating a story, tells her the truth. “Some of my friends, when I was kid—I think the public library saved us, in a lot of ways. Sounds melodramatic, but it’s true. There were no jobs, so fewer and fewer quit school—Then thousands of teachers got laid off across the city. I mean, they tried, but you couldn’t get schooling for shit, most of the public schools, back then.”

“Public schools, man,” says Ashleigh. “They deserve to be great. Kids deserve for them to be great.” She scrapes the dishes into a compost bucket, then piles them next to the sink. “After I finish my degree,” she says, “Rachael and I are going to register to be foster parents.”

“That’s great,” says Steve, and means it. He wonders briefly if that’s something they let single people do, then tamps the thought down. He’s in no fit state to take a kid on. 

With parties, though, he seems to do alright: His guests smile and laugh and do the dishes by assembly line, despite his protests. Cribbage gets drunkenly, expensively competitive and Steve realises that he forgot to put his photographs away. Peg’s envelope is safe in the top of his wardrobe, of course, but his framed pictures sit gentle and contented on the bookshelf, Sarah's rosary next to them. 

The way normal people’s do, no doubt.

 

**February 1944**

**Italy (SSR Base Camp)**

**Parenthood**

 

Hesitating on the laboratory threshold, Steve said, “Howard? Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did,” said Howard, voice muffled and only his legs sticking out from beneath the chassis of an army jeep.

“Oh. Well, um—”

“Shoot,” says Howard.

“I’ve gone through Dr. Erskine’s notes—As much as they would let me see, anyway.” _Which isn’t much_ , he thought. “But I’m having trouble making sense of them.” Though he had always prided himself on his honesty, Steve had managed so far to keep to himself that reading remained difficult, privately frustrated that the serum hadn’t helped. Even now, after all the miracles of his life, he was still caught up in things he couldn’t have. At least he could demur to Howard’s scientific expertise rather than admit it took him hours simply to wade through the text of the doctor’s reports, much less interpret their content. He had considered showing them to Bucky, but it seemed unfair to ask for his help; not for the first time, he wished Bucky and Dr. Erskine could have met. 

“I know there are more records kicking around,” said Howard. He drew himself further beneath the undercarriage until only his shoes—expensive leather and impeccably clean; Steve shook his head—stuck out. “Abraham Erskine was a genius. He snuck his research out of Germany written in code and disguised as a stack of university entrance essays. There is no way—Augh, shit!” A metallic clang sounded, followed by a hiss of pain. “What I mean is that what you’ve seen and even what _I’ve_ been able to get my hands on”—his tone implied, as it so often did with him, that money changed hands in significant quantities—“is only a small piece of the puzzle.” He slid out from beneath the jeep and sat up, vest splotched with grease. “And they expect results when all I’ve got is incomplete data!”

There was no denying that Howard wore his clothing well, but still Steve shuddered inwardly at the damage to the expensive clothing, thinking about what it would take to scrub out a stain like that. Bucky had once nearly ruined his best shirt with engine grease and been furious, until Steve spent an afternoon carefully fixing it.

“But enough about me,” said Howard, wiping his hands on his trousers. “What’s your question?”

“I don’t know if you’ll have an answer,” said Steve. He had marched to the laboratory with purpose, courage marshalled, but though Howard—of all people—was the only one he dared ask, he was suddenly reticent. “It’s—“

“Spit it out,” said Howard. “Don’tcha know there’s a war on?” He winked. “Between friends—Promise.”

Steve blinked, then went for it, or tried, at least. “Can I—That is, the serum—” To his bone-deep annoyance, he blushed, though G-d knew he’d done more scandalous shit. He suddenly wondered if Howard had ever guessed, about him and Bucky. _Focus, Rogers._ “Can I have children?”

Howard looked at him, solemn and grave. “I don’t know if you’re familiar with the procedure, but that’s normally the gal’s job.”

“Oh, fuck _off_ , Howard,” said Steve, putting his hand over his face. _Clearly_ _he’s never guessed._ He thought, perhaps, that Howard would not be fazed, but he’d never test the theory without Bucky’s permission. “You know what I mean.”

Howard, the bastard, _giggled_ , but then straightened his expression and his vest, shifting into _scientist_ mode. ( _Bucky looked the same_ , Steve thought, _with a problem before him_.) “There’s no reason to believe the serum would affect that, but if you’re concerned, _that_ at least is something we can check, if you’d like.”

Steve dragged a hand over his mouth. “It’s more that I’ve been wondering: If I did have kids, would they be like me— _Which_ me?”

“You mean, would you have your own army of superbrats?” Howard pursed his lips thoughtfully, like the idea had never occurred to him, but now that it had, he was intrigued. “You know, superbrats could justify the whole child-rearing scheme.”

Steve shook his head. “Less that,” he says, “and more—Would they be healthy, or more like I was—before?” He had never thought about children, not concretely .  Not children of his own, anyway. He loved Bucky’s sisters like family, but all the years he’d thought he’d spend his life with Bucky, the point had been moot: It wasn’t something they could have, ever, so why spare a thought for it? Having met Peg, though, a door had opened where there was once only a brick wall. Steve didn’t regret his life, far from it, but he knew, too, what his illnesses cost his mother, not to mention his own years of pain. If any child of his would be like he had, he wanted to be ready with the best of care.

Howard clapped him on the shoulder. “Sorry, pal—You’re uncharted territory. But just because we don’t know yet doesn’t mean we won’t figure it out. _I’ll_ figure it out.”

“Thanks,” said Steve, trying to mask his disappointment. 

“In the meantime,” said Howard, apparently trying to cheer him up, “come check out some prototypes I’ve been working on.” He tugged Steve farther into the lab and Steve remembered the designs he’d been meaning to share, folded and shoved into his back pocket. 

“Do you want kids?” It was a pretty personal question, especially during the War, when many were superstitious of jinxing themselves, but he didn’t want to be the only one spilling his guts. Howard was the same age as Bucky, a year older than Steve, but he seemed so put together. Like he really had a fix on things and knew exactly what he was doing. 

Howard laughed, light and breezy, and shook his head. “Naw. Can you imagine? I’ve got too much to do.” He bared his right ankle like a film coquette, but didn’t leave Steve enough time to make out the words written there. “Haven’t even met my soulmate yet! And on the subject of things to do—Remind Barnes that my post-war offer is still on the table, would you?”

“Offer?”

“To work for Stark Industries.”

“Bucky never mentioned—”

“What, does he live in your back pocket?” Howard shoots him a quizzical look. “Probably he’s still musing on his excellent luck. Anyway, he’s got a great mind, so remind him, and as for you: C’mon!”

 

**Present Day**

**New York City**

**[ — — — ]**

 

After Bruce, Betty, and Sam sign off, and Tony and Pepper go home, ‘Tasha wins the hearts of a very tipsy Ashleigh and Rachael by sparing them taxi-fare and driving them home in her gleaming Stingray. After, she comes back to Steve’s and says, “Sleep on your couch, Rogers? We can crack open a bottle—Car’s parked and I am _so done_ not drinking.”

Steve is privately gratified that despite his certainty that she has her pick of safe-houses around the city, not to mention Clint’s Bed-Stuy _building_ (Clint himself had been forced to sneak away early; “he’ll never admit it,” said ‘Tasha, after he left, “but he lost a bet with Katie Bishop and now he has to go be embarrassingly patriotic over in Jersey”) and her very own floor at Stark Tower, she’s put _his_ fold-out futon at the top of her list. The two of them work their way through a bottle of Malbec .  It has no effect on Steve, of course, but under ‘Tasha’s instruction, he’s come to appreciate the taste. 

“You seem pretty settled here,” she says.

He blushes. Tonight, the glasses in the sink won’t be a lie and he’s glad to be back in Brooklyn—Even though it’s not _his_ Brooklyn, he’s found new familiarities, happier than he’d anticipated to forge new routines. He enjoys Ashleigh and Rachael’s company, Skypes with Sam every Thursday night, occasionally goes out with Tony and Pepper. He also knows, though, the question beneath her statement: _Have you stopped looking for him?_ Nearly a year has passed since the Potomac and still Steve clings to his memories: The hands that pulled him out, the wracking pain, the piercing sunlight that silhouetted Bucky’s body in his blurred vision.“I couldn’t find him” he says, choosing to be up-front, “but that doesn’t mean I won’t, or that I’ve stopped trying.” The European trail had gone cold—he can’t deny that—but he can’t deny, either, that he’s aware that his new routines give him a steady visibility, nor that he wanders their old haunts, looking… 

“Do you remember what I said?”

“‘Don’t pull on that thread.’”

“I didn’t say _don’t_ ,” says ‘Tasha. She swirls the wine in her glass. “I said you might not want to. You’re doing a lot better, though, Steve. Than you were.” She sips. “Or I should say, you seem to be—How do you feel?”

“Alright,” says Steve. He drains his own glass. “I’m sleeping better. The thing is, ‘Tasha, that it’s not just looking for him.”

She tilts her head, inviting him to continue. 

“What do I do if—” He doesn’t like voicing the possibility, but he has to. “If I don’t find him. SHIELD’s imploded, there’s no new Avengers business—What do I do?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Ha! Easier said than done.” Steve pours himself a bit more. “I don’t want to do what I _want_. I want to do what I _need_ to.” He sounds more petulant than he meant to.

‘Tasha keeps swirling her glass, thoughtful. “I think I know what you mean. Tony wouldn’t get it, or even Bruce, I think, because they made themselves, for better and for worse.” She takes the last of the bottle. “But you and me, and your friend, too—We were made. For a singular purpose.”

“How did you get out?”

She smiles. “Well, Clint got me out of Russia.” 

Steve leans back in his chair. Their story, ‘Tasha’s and Clint’s, makes him tingle with jealousy, for all he loves hearing it. Clint had been sent to kill her, but instead said, “You don’t have to do this, you can come with me instead,” with no idea that she’d wondered about the words her House Leader insisted she ignore, inexplicably written on her body—in English—since her twenty-first birthday. For his part, Clint had resigned himself to never finding his soulmate, the one who’d say, in Russian, “You’re stuck with me now and you better not regret it.” (“Haven’t once yet,” he says cheerfully, each time he tells the story, and lets ‘Tasha swat him, saying “Aww, Widow, you know I love you.”) Steve goggled at their happiness, their comfort and their trust. Clint had called it an open relationship: They saw other people, slept with other people, were still determining the shape of their permanence, and still it was clear to all who met them that they were each other’s one-and-only, no matter the form that took.

“And big-picture-wise,” continues ‘Tasha. “I made myself a new purpose.” She snorts. “Much good it did me, working for Hydra all along, but I like to think I’ve made good.”

“You have.” Steve shakes off his envy, impressed—as always—by ‘Tasha’s strength. “Thank you for coming tonight.

“Thank you for inviting me.” She puts her feet up on one of the extra chairs, smiling at Steve. (He doesn’t tell her to put her feet down.) “Your friend are nice. Oh!” She perks up. “Got a line on a date for you.”

Steve shakes his head, both irritated and fond. “No thanks,” he says. “That’s quite enough of that.”

“But Steve, he’s great—I promise. Top-notch guy, steady job, cute butt and everything.”

Steve blinks at her, bowled over. “Are you serious?”

“Am I off-base?” She sobers and reaches across the table to take his hand. “Maybe this is my way of saying sorry. I am really good at my job, Rogers. _Really_ good. But even the great ones make mistakes and I—Made some judgements about you. And I’m sorry.”

“Not quite the all-American-boy you thought, hey?” He pats her hand. “Hey, apology accepted. But no more blind dates, please.” Bucky, still, he keeps to himself—A secret heavy as lead, but gold-precious.

“But—”

“ _No_.”

She finishes her glass and looks up at him, expectant.“It’s strange, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“You and me and Ashleigh and Rachael. We’re all the same age, more or less, and look how different we all turned out.”

 

**December 1943**

**Italy (SSR Base Camp)**

**Hero-Worship**

 

If it had been Brooklyn a year before, Steve would have barged in, but things had changed, so instead he waited outside Bucky’s tent in the early morning darkness until he heard a clear-voiced, “Yeah? What?” When he poked his head in, found Bucky seated cross-legged on his bedroll, fully dressed, though they weren’t due anywhere for hours. He wondered if Bucky had slept at all, but didn’t ask. His mouth was dry.

After months of lying by omission in his letters—mostly sketches, which came easier to him than words—he still hadn’t told Bucky about Peg. It wouldn’t have been right to do it by letter, and then, half-leading, half-carrying him out of the burning factory at Krossberg, he knew Bucky wasn’t strong enough to hear it. He had meant to wait only until Bucky was cleared by the SSR medical team, then Bucky writhed in a fever for two days and they wouldn’t let Steve near him, and then they went to London, where—much to his surprise and, if he was honest, hurt—he hadn’t been able to get Bucky alone, except in the bar, and he couldn’t have told him _then_ , there in public. Then Peg herself had turned up and Bucky had come on to her, said, “I’m turning into you, it’s like a horrible dream,” and Steve had wanted to shout, _I get it, okay, I get the point_. 

But of course, he couldn’t.

The hole he had dug himself kept growing. So many believed him courageous—relied on it, even—and he was such a coward, it wasn’t even funny. 

“Morning,” said Bucky, cheerfully. “What acts of murder and mayhem on the cooker today?” He was like that, after Krossberg, full of gallows humour. So unlike the old, peace-making Bucky that it made Steve shiver. His new dogtags shone uncomfortably bright against his skin, his old ones having been taken at the factory; he wouldn’t talk about who had taken them or what they had said, or done, after reading them. 

“No murder,” said Steve, having learned long ago that the best thing to do when Bucky was in a mood was to meet him head-on. “But possibly mayhem. There’s someone I want you to meet.” Regardless of his mistakes and missteps, he knew that _this_ would bring out Bucky’s best Brooklyn charm, because Howard Stark was his hero, a poor kid made good.

“Already met your girl, remember?” Bucky quirked an eyebrow, though his mouth remained flat, and Steve wilted. Trust Bucky to figure it out all on his lonesome. He supposed it _was_ kind of obvious, but it was— _Shit_ , he thought. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Bucky’s face was impassive. “Same as when I got my call-up, ‘cept you don’t see _me_ puking my guts out and throwing a tantrum.”

Anger prickled across Steve’s skin, but he pushed it back, clenching it in the curl of his fists. “Okay,” he said. “I deserved that.” He narrowed his eyes. “But Buck, you never told _me_ you enlisted as a _medic_! A non-combatant and—”

“Doesn’t matter, I’m not anymore.” Bucky conscientiously examined his right palm. “You sleeping with her?”

“No.” _Not yet._

“You wanna?” Then, before Steve could answer, he coughed and said, “Of course you do, don’t answer that.”

“I haven’t told her about us.”

“What, you’re ashamed of me, now?”

Steve stammered, “No, no, Buck—C’mon. Of course not. I just didn’t want to give you up, is all, not without asking.”

“Seems like giving me up is exactly what you want to do,” said Bucky, deliberately misunderstanding, still seated, still talking like it was all one big joke. “All your big talk, we’re gonna stick it out, you said, and then you go down like a knockout.” He rolled his shoulders and looked up for the first time. “You’re not wearing your ma’s ring anymore—You gonna marry that girl?”

Steve swallowed heavily.

“Where’re you gonna live, Steve? Hmm?” Bucky glowered. “Don't think she’ll fit in our place.”

Steve said nothing; he hadn’t thought of that.

“Look at you,” said Bucky with a pained laugh. “You haven’t thought that far ahead, have you? _Feh!_ She grew up in _Chelsea_ , Steve.”

“What’s your point?” Steve frowned. He knew Peg was fancier than him, but that didn’t mean—

“That girl doesn’t know you,” said Bucky, and his voice cracked. He pushed his left hand against his chest and held Steve’s gaze. Tongued his still-swollen, still-split lip. “Not like I do. _I_ know you.” Blood was in the corner of his mouth. “But you grew out of me, you’re going to leave me behind.”

“Buck,” Steve began.

“ _Shut up_. Look, Stevie, this is huge for you, okay? Massive, I know. You’re—Different, now.” Bucky looked away. at last. “Everything’s different.”

Steve’s stomach flipped. Did this mean—Did Bucky—The idea that Bucky was no longer attracted to him hit him like a gut-punch. Hypocritical, but there it was: He felt like such a fool, stewing away about how _his_ feelings had changed, never thinking that Bucky’s might have. And he _knew_ he'd let Bucky down, only he’d been trying…

“I just mean,” said Bucky, picking at a hangnail, sucking away the blood that welled up. “Look, you have to do this.”

It wasn’t quite a question, but Steve felt the question behind it. He had never met anyone who found their soulmate, then left them for someone else. It wasn’t done. He would dare damnation for Bucky any day of the week, but it wasn’t only _him_ at stake anymore. It was Peg, too: If you found your soulmate, it was them or solitude and Sarah raised him to do the right thing, always. Besides, he had never expected… He _loved_ Peg. He had put her picture in his compass-case because he was a sentimental sap, and he wanted to marry her, to raise her family. He had called her _mo chuisle_ the other day, it just slipped out and he blushed like the devil, and she smiled and said, “Don’t be embarrassed, it’s wonderful.” Love was tearing him up.

“Anyway I don’t want to share you,” said Bucky. “Some people can, but not me, so do it, just do it. Now, what did you—”

“Buck—”

“ _What_ did you want?”

It was clear Bucky didn’t want to talk any more about soulmates right then, choking back the feeling that burst from him just moments before, but Steve knew the conversation wasn’t over, not by a long-shot. He cleared his throat. “I wanted you to meet someone,” he said again.

“If it’s some SSR hotshot,” said Bucky, “I can’t guarantee I’ll be on my best behaviour. We had no business being up near Azzano in the first place.”

Steve wished he knew how to talk to Bucky about what he’d seen, but he could only push back his hair and stammer, “Uh, no, not exactly—You’ll like him, though.” He paused for dramatic effect, a USO trick. “Howard is very personable—Though also just like you would have guessed from the Expo.” He couldn’t help rolling his eyes.

“Howard?”

“Mmhmm,” said Steve, smiling quirking his mouth, because he could see the excitement nipping at Bucky, who had jumped to his feet.

“Don’t mess with me, Stevie. You mean Howard _Stark_?”

Steve shrugged, smiling.

“Oh my. Fuck,” said Bucky, startled into the language. He rubbed his eyes. Opened and closed his mouth. “Fuck. Oh. Fuck. This is—”

“Don’t panic,” said Steve.

“I’m not panicking.”

“You look like you’re panicking.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Come on.” He grabbed Bucky’s left arm, telling himself that Bucky did not cringe away, and hauled him off to the lab, and the delight that radiated from him as he interrogated his childhood idol was almost enough to chase the pain from his face and the sorrow from Steve’s belly. 

“It’s a weight problem,” said Howard, gesticulating at his disemboweled jeep. “You need a frame strong enough to support the repulsers—” 

“But light enough for lift-off,” said Bucky, who had been entranced by the Stark Hover-car for years. 

“Exactly,” said Howard.

“Okay, about that,” said Bucky.

They chattered and Steve slipped away. 

 

**Present Day**

**New York City**

**[ — — — ]**

 

Steve wakes to breakfast smells, ‘Tasha having taken over the kitchen to lay out a tremendous post-birthday spread. Others forget how much he needs to eat, now, but she doesn’t, and the table is lined with bread and fruit and cold-cuts, while she stands over the stove-top, cooking _blinchiki_ with cheese and potato.

“Bucky’s mother used to make these,” says Steve, as he munches his ninth, remembering Winnie Barnes in her glory.“She called them _blintzes_.”

 

**November 1943**

**Italy (SSR Base Camp)**

**Failure**

 

For Steve the first months after the serum were a period of personal crisis. His body was unrecognisable, he was far from the only own home he’d ever known, and not only was his lifelong confidante risking his own life across the Atlantic, but Steve wasn’t even allowed to tell him what had happened. He struggled to maintain his correspondence—with Bucky, whose replies rarely got through, and with the other Barneses back in Brooklyn, not to mention Peg, who he barely knew and was bound by her own rules of secrecy. Still, he tried. The vibrancy he’d seen in her in their brief time together shone through even her simplest notes, and labouring over his own words, he told her as much as he could about his childhood, about Sarah, about his art, but still when he looked at his letters, all he saw were the gaping holes that to him screamed Bucky. He knew he was lying by not telling, he wanted to be honest, but tangled in law and fear and the rule of the army censor, he didn't know how to do it. 

In other ways, though, despite its stresses and the wear of daily performance, his time on the USO circuit was also some of the most thrilling of his life. It wasn’t the attention—he disliked being packaged for the USO as much as he disliked packaging himself in his letters to Peg—but instead the opportunity for travel, the best wage he’d ever earned, and the sheer intoxicating buzz of health. He could run, and carry the girls’ things, and generally make himself useful; he could breathe without rattle or whistle and at last stop fearing blood if he happened to cough. Though he was self-conscious of the attention his appearance now garnered and clumsy in his new strength, and he both missed Bucky desperately and had no idea what to do about either him or Peg (he had been certain he would never waver in his commitment, he had promised Bucky, and yet… ), he was hale and hearty for the first time in his life—And he was _helping_ , even if not exactly the way he had thought he would. 

Even if more embarrassingly than he had thought he would. 

 

In November, Winnie wrote him via V-Mail. He wasn’t surprised to hear from her—The Barneses had sent a couple before and he had let them know, as much as he was allowed, where he was and that he was as well as could be expected—He put his limited energies toward short notes for them, knowing Bucky preferred his illustrated updates, anyway. What surprised him about _this_ letter, though, and made his breath catch in his chest, was its content: Winnie said she hadn’t heard from James (Steve shook his head; all her life she’d fought a war of attrition to use his birth name; _everyone_ called him Bucky, except Winnie, Sarah, and his grandmother, Bela, who only called him _Jacob_ ) in more than two months. It was probably nothing to fuss over, she wrote, only he was normally so conscientious, so if Steve heard from him first, would he be a dear and let the family know? Winnie, not to mention Bela, were desperately reliant on V-Mail for news, more than ever after their family's letters stopped—And both Steve and Bucky knew it.

The letter was signed with love from her, George, Rebecca, and Bina, and dated early October. Steve held it in his lap. Though _he_ hadn’t heard from Bucky in a while either, up to that minute he’d assumed his letters had simply been lost in the USO shuffle. He shook his head to clear it, certain Bucky was fine, that he would have _known_ if that weren’t the case. ( _No, you wouldn’t,_ he thought. _You’re not soulmates_.) The postscript, though, was written in a different hand than Winnie’s smooth cursive, and with a jolt, Steve recognised it for Bucky’s father’s: _Steven_ , it said, _I can’t shake this feeling you’ll see our Bucky before we do. I don’t want to worry his mother, but when you see him, tell him I’m proud he went to pray when our Rebecca was born._ _Me, an old man, I made a mistake back then and it troubles me, now. If there is a G-d (which you know I doubt, but as Pascal said, you can’t be too careful!), it better be looking out for you both. Tell Bucky—I know what he believes and what he’s doing, and I’m so proud._

Steve sat back. He knew Bucky’s parents were worried, but had only considered it abstractly, in the way that they all were, American families from coast to coast. That George was this scared, that he confided in Steve but not his wife or son, that Winnie must have known writing to _him_ for news was a fool’s errand—It was a blow. He didn’t like to see them fallible. Sarah remained in his memory untouchable, having left him before he could realise she was not, but he had looked to the Barneses for security all his life.

He started at a tap on his shoulder and turned to find one of the USO girls, Annie, waiting with her hand on her hip.

“C’mon, Captain,” she said. “Curtain call!”

“Right,” said Steve. “Sorry. I’ll—Be right there.” He tucked Winnie’s letter into his sketchbook, then jogged toward the stage.

He didn’t learn until after his _disaster_ of a show that he had run his two-bit act before the remnants of the 107 th and that neither Bucky nor their old friend Jackie Meaney were among them. 

 

**Present Day**

**New York City**

**[ — — — ]**

 

When Tony buzzes his apartment, Steve doesn’t have time to clear his belongings away, leaving his floor covered with schematics, print-outs, and dismantled desktop computers when Tony arrives at the door. He stands open-mouthed and Steve, while annoyed, also enjoys having left him speechless. “Hey, Tony,” he says. “‘Sup?”

“‘’Sup? You say ‘’sup’ now?” 

“I was always very hip to the times,” says Steve, sardonic.

Tony peers around the room. “If you’re having computer trouble, Capsicle, you could just ask me.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I’m not having _trouble_. I’m—”

“Then what?”

Steve takes a deep breath and converts his irritation to amusement, still enjoying Tony caught out with nothing to say. “I wanted to see how they work,” he says. “I’ve got some schematics around here somewhere.” He crouches to dig through the pile. “And I’m building my own—I mean, basic as hell—But still.” He shrugs, suddenly shy.

“I didn’t think you—”

Steve huffs. “Seriously. I flew the Tesseract-plane after the engine blew up.” (He’s also been drawing again, experimenting with artist’s tablets—a wonder to him—though he doesn’t mention it.) 

Tony arches an eyebrow. “Fair dues. And colour me excited to have another nerd friend, anyway. So what _is_ up?”

“What is the difference,” says Steve, before his brain can catch up with his mouth, “between Zola and Jarvis?” 

Tony shakes his head quickly, like he’s been struck, but other than that, doesn’t let the question faze him; he looks a lot like Howard, right then. “Jarvis isn’t a Nazi?”

“Besides that. Was Jarvis always an AI?”

“Are you asking me if I uploaded a person into my house?”

“Are you saying you couldn’t?”

“ _Rude_ , Capsicle. And Jarvis is a program I built.”

“But that doesn’t really answer my question,” says Steve. He stands, stretching out the cramping in his legs. “What—is the _difference_ between Zola and Jarvis?”

“Flip it around,” says Tony. “What do you think is the same about them?”

“Consciousness in a computer,” says Steve. “A person without a body.”

“Those two aren’t necessarily the sa—Wait, you think Jarvis is a person?”

“Don’t you? If I offered you a better system, but a different one, right now, would you take it?”

“There is no better system.”

“Answer the question.”

“No, I like Jarvis.”

“Would you feel guilty if you hurt him?”

“What do you mean ‘hurt?’”

“Answerthe question.”

“ _Yes_.” Tony cracks his knuckles. “But if that’s your test for artificial intelligence, you are no Alan Turing. Has it occurred that maybe I’m just a creature of habit?”

“Anyway,” says Steve, because it makes sense in his head, so Tony should be able to follow, right? “That’s why I am working on computers.”

“I am not picking up what you’re putting down, kid.”

“Why _are_ you here, anyway?” 

“As it happens,” says Tony, “I’m a man on a mission.”

 

**May 1943**

**New York City**

**Little Lies**

 

Steve went alone to the theatre on Saturday afternoon, not because he was particularly interested in the titles on the marquee, but because he’d been stamped 4F for the third time in as many days, and with Bucky at the recruitment office himself, couldn’t bear going home. 

Bucky had left that morning, less than a week after his letter’s arrival, armed with three days’ worth of clothes as directed, and possibly Steve would never see him again. “ _Shit_ ,” he said, under his breath. He was pushing his luck with yet another fake name, too. Ticket in hand, he shrugged off his jacket and spotted Marjorie Meaney stepping out of the ladies’. He gave her a small nod. 

She beckoned him over with a wave of her own, then clasped his hand with a warm, “Hullo, Steve,” but she seemed— _too_ bright. Trying too hard. Worried about Jackie, no doubt. “How are you these days?”

He shrugged. “Same old. How about you? Haven’t seen you around in a dog’s.”

She shrugged, just the same. “Been working—Got a new factory job, doing plane dials, and I’m—” She bit her lip. “Jackie got called up.”

“Bucky said.” He looked up at her, earnest. “He’s trying to make sure they stick together, Margie.” She and Jackie had been married four years—As long as Steve and Bucky had been together, which was a thought that jolted Steve like electricity.

She sniffed, then said, kindly, “How’re _you_ holding up, honey?”

“Oh, fine,” said Steve. That answer, though, earned him a skeptical look. She knew him—and Bucky, and _him’n’Bucky_ —pretty well. “Could be better,” he mumbled.

“I’m so nervous, Steve, I could shake apart.” She smoothed the front of her skirt. “A couple girls from work dragged me out this afternoon, take my mind off it, but I can’t stop thinking—”

“They’ll be alright,” said Steve, and despite the words’ hollowness, their little lies, they were right for the moment, what both he and Marjorie needed. 

“I told him,” said Marjorie, “I said, stay close to Buck and he’ll keep you out of trouble.”

_But who_ , thought Steve, _will keep Bucky out of trouble?_ Not him if he couldn’t get past the recruitment office. He might have drowned in his sorrows right there and taken Marjorie with him, except that he knew he couldn’t. Instead, to make her smile, he held out his arm with elaborate politeness and said, just as dramatically, “May I walk you to your seat, Mrs. Meaney?”

She took his arm. “Why, Mr. Rogers,” she said, theatrically demure behind one gloved hand, “you are a true gentleman.”

 

He settled Marjorie with her friends, then seated himself a few rows down—Pleased as he was to have run into her, he had come to the theatre to brood in the dark, not to socialise. Before the film even began, though, the standard reels ran, news and recruitment advertisements, all leaving Steve blinking angrily in the dark, willing himself not to cry _in public_ , for heaven’s sake. 

Three rows ahead, a man threw a handful of popcorn and heckled the projectionist. “Let’s go, get on with it!”

Steve felt a tug of fury in his belly. A quick glance over his shoulder showed Marjorie crying into her handkerchief, one friend squeezing her shoulder and the other glaring at the heckler. The tug rose into a blaze, and he hissed “Hey! You wanna shut up?”

The man stood, turned, and not only was he huge, but also someone Steve had hoped, after finishing school, to avoid for at least the rest of forever. “You wanna make me, Rogers?”

_Oh shit_ , thought Steve, and steeled himself to go down fighting. 

 

And after—after Bucky saved Steve’s sorry ass from Colin Martin (and not for the first time), when Steve stood before him with his shirt rumpled, his nose leaking blood, and his shoulder aching where he had braced the trashcan lid, all he could think was, _He’s beautiful, no one can hurt him._

Bucky had his orders, but also a temporary reprieve: He and Jackie and all the others were shipping out for England the next day, but didn’t have to report until nine o’clock that night. Colin sprawled groaning in the alley behind them and Steve was urgently aware of the immanence of Bucky’s departure, even with the cruel gift of a few hours more, and he knew that Bucky was, too, so he simply couldn’t be bitter when Bucky snapped at him for trying to enlist again. He knew Bucky was biting back more criticism for the same reason—That they were both thinking, _Who will take care of you if I’m not there?_

“I got my hands on tickets to the Stark Expo tonight,” said Bucky, “and I even convinced Connie and Bonnie, those two nice slacks we met at that jazz club, to join us. I’ve been to temple. I’ve said goodbye to my parents and the girls, and it’ll wreck Ma if I go back again, so _we_ are going to have a great night.” He slung his arm around Steve’s shoulders and Steve pretended not to notice his unsteadiness. “A great night, _so help me_.”

Steve wouldn’t spoil Bucky’s last night, not for anything. He would get past the recruiters, he’d be doing his bit—finally—soon enough. Until then, he had to put what he wanted aside and keep those thoughts to himself. For the night, at least. Until Bucky was gone. _Gone._ He threw a quick look over his shoulder: Colin staggered to his feet, then ducked into the theatre without looking back. _No one can hurt him_. Bucky said, “Wait a minute, was that who I think it was?” but Steve just grabbed Bucky’s perfectly pressed lapels and pulled him into a rough and eager kiss. He left a smudge of blood across Bucky’s upper lip.

“Gah,” said Bucky, blinking, and Steve adored the way he went insensible when kissed. “Hello to you, too.”

 

**Present Day**

**New York City**

**[ — — — ]**

 

“What kind of mission?” 

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” says Tony. “First, tell me what you mean about Jarvis and all.”

Steve tries to explain. “Hydra put Arnim Zola into a computer. All of him, everything he is—Was—Whatever.”

“If this bothers you,” says Tony, picking his way across the cluttered floor, “never look up Transhumanism.”

Steve makes a face. “I _know_ what Transhumanism is.” The movement seemed obsessed with him, for a start—And with channelling that fixation on the super-human into something—digital? But he was attached to his body, for all its flaws, and nor did he like to consider that he had perhaps left the category of “human” behind the moment he lay on Dr. Erskine's table. _What are you?_

“Alright,” says Tony, on his hands and knees on the floor, watching Steve intently. He means to be attentive, Steve knows, but it’s mostly intimidating. “You’re going to have to break it down for me: What’s bugging you about this?”

“Does Jarvis, um, _want_ things?”

“Focus, please. Pretend you’re me talking to you—Max two syllables per word.”

“I _was_. And syllables has three—” Steve stops himself at Tony’s quelling look and as asked, focuses. It’s difficult, which is why he’d been flippant and distracted. Apart from the bare minimum required by SHIELD medical and his psych-eval, he hasn’t talked at length about the serum or its effects since Bucky, and marshalling the ideas swirling loose in his brain is a challenge. “Tony,” he says, “this isn’t easy for me, okay? This is important.”

“Understood,” says Tony. “Now, hit me. Figuratively, that is. Sans suit you are not allowed, actually, to hit me. Ever.”

“I know most of what the serum did to me,” says Steve, “because the obvious stuff is, well, _obvious_ , and even before, I tried to get as much information as I could.” (He remembers talking this way with Howard and spins with something like vertigo, then closes his eyes, grateful he’s already on the floor.) “But even so—If the serum is supposed to magnify things, why didn’t my lungs get worse? Or my colour-blindness?” He huffed. “Why did my asthma disappear, but my dyslexia stayed? I’m stronger, sure, but I can’t count how many times I've dislocated my shoulder.” ( _You telling me you think that supersoldier magic potion cured you of me?_ ) “My hearing got better and my scars disappeared, but—” He stumbles over his next words. “How much can you change, before you aren’t a person anymore?”

Tony’s mouth hangs open.

“That’s not,” says Steve, blushing, looking at the floor, “really what I meant, I—”

“ _Steve_ ,” says Tony. “Do you think you’re not a person?”

“No!” He leans against the couch and draws his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. He feels like a kid reprimanded at school and hates it. “Maybe. Something happened to me.”

“No shit, Sherlock. A lot’s happened to you.”

Tony reminds Steve so much of both Bucky and of Howard that he starts to laugh—He has to, else he’d be weeping. He laughs until he needs to wipe his eyes anyway, then looks up to find Tony standing over him, looking at him like he’s a ticking time bomb.

“Alright,” he says. “Come with me.”

“What?”

“Leave the science project. Now it’s time for business.” He stands.

“The mission?” Steve follows. “What is it?”

“It’s called,” says Tony, stage-whispering as he pulls Steve toward the door, “Operation Get The Captain Out Of His Apartment.”

 

**June 1943**

**New York City**

**Conscription**

 

Bucky often read at their (makeshift) table over dinner, while Steve often sketched or laboured over his old school texts, leaving their books splattered and stained. That particular night and in-between spoonfuls of soup, Bucky said, “I don’t know why people read this guy, seriously, I don’t.” He banged the book shut.

Steve’s body ached with the hints of an oncoming flu, something he dreaded, and his stomach _ached_ , but still he looked up cheerfully and said, “What guy?”

“Freud.” Bucky huffed.

“What about him?” Though Bucky knew more, Steve had a working knowledge of the Austrian doctor’s work. Bucky had been on a kick all that winter, reading every book he could get his hands on, just to say he had. 

Bucky brandished his spoon. “He says that soulmate identification is this, this _impulse_ , this _thing_ driving everyone to, whatsit”—he flipped through the book—“to ‘strive for reunion.’ With your ‘other half.’”

Steve considered this. Certainly, in the pictures and in novels, in newspapers and even on the streets, a culture of romance orbited soulmates, all swooning maidens, dashing men, and love at first sight. Was that what Bucky meant? Sarah had once said, though, that meeting Joseph wasn’t so much love at first sight as knowing that she _wanted_ to love him. (“Though he was a _dab hand_ ,” she had added, quietly, to Winnie, an overheard comment it taken an ignorant Steve several years to interpret.) “Well,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

Bucky frowned. 

“I’m serious.” Steve closed his own book, a guide to the Metropolitan Museum, and pushed it aside. “If finding your soulmate means you’ve found the right partner, and you’ve got the Marks—”

“Some of us _don’t_ match.”

“I _love_ you,” said Steve, used to Bucky’s worries and taking him at face-value to calm him down. “And I was going to say, even if all those things, it doesn’t mean you can’t be happy—Right?” 

“But if he’s right, then soulmates are only about sex, really—Just wanting to stick your dick somewhere, but a _particular_ somewhere—”

Steve shook his head at Bucky’s left turn from psychoanalysis into slang and just to be ornery, said, “Buck, isn’t everything about sex, really?”

“No,” said Bucky, sharp and indignant. “There is more—”

Steve rolled his eyes and said, mostly fondly, “ _You_ , pal, say there’s more to life than sex like rich people say there’s more to life than money.”

“That’s hardly fair, when you’re such a damn romantic.”

“That was a compliment, you know.”

Bucky glared. “You don’t need sex to live.”

“Of course not! And you don’t need a soulmate to live, either.” Steve hummed with concentration. While he usually lost these intellectual wrestling matches, he thought he might for once have the upper hand. He considered the matter. Those who lived outside soulmate pairs—the unmatched, or those with no mark, not to mention the one-sided or those who, _shockingly_ , chose to ignore their Marks—were considered social pariahs, second-class citizens, though the more privileged could more easily conceal it. Steve, his blood boiling at the unfairness of it, had never seen a scrap of evidence that the presence or absence of a Mark made you a better or worse person. The real problem, he thought, was the disgusting ways people treated each other, segregation, enrolment quotas, union-breaking… He shivered, thinking suddenly of the rumours out of Europe. Winnie Barnes had not had a letter, not a single one, from her family in Hungary since just after the war broke out, though she and Bela waited for mail with fresh hope each day.

“He says its immature,” said Bucky. “People like us: Marked but serious with people who aren’t their—” Shifting in his chair, Bucky picked at the bandage, never removed in Steve’s sight, that covered the Mark on his left forearm, and with a flash through his blood, Steve realised the root of Bucky’s fear: To his eyes, Freud said _soulmates equals sex drive_ , not good, not bad, only an impulse. Just a thing—But a thing that _everyone_ had, that drove them toward one another, their other half, whereas Bucky wanted to build a life with Steve when they decidedly did _not_ match. Appalled by his own Mark, which he adamantly refused to share, he was desperate for concrete, empirical evidence that it was alright for them to be together. That they were not stunted or immature or any of the vicious things that people said. He desired Steve and he loved Steve—that, thankfully, had never been in question—but he remained viscerally jealous of those could wear their connections on their bodies for anyone to see. 

“I want to know what causes soulmate matches,” said Bucky. “I want to know how it happens, why it happens. I want to build things, discover things. There is so much I want to know.”

All over again, Steve hated Colin Martin and the Thirties and TB and fucking _enrolment quotas_ and all the long list of things that had conspired to keep Bucky out of college. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Then: “I don’t need to find my other half,” he said. “You’re right here.”

Bucky closed his eyes and Steve could see him rallying, trying not to dwell. “Anyway,” he said. “I question the claims of a man who honestly thinks girls only come in their _pocketbooks_ , no matter he says elsewhere that you can’t help being queer.”

Steve snorted his last bit of soup through his nose, then coughing, wiped his face on his sleeve and said, “ _Bucky_ ,” but Bucky only smiled, saint-like. Steve thought, for a moment, of Marjorie, though with no regrets, only the pleasant fondness of memory. He said, “ _My_ hypothesis, _Doctor_ Barnes, is that _you_ are actually the damn romantic here.” He nudged Bucky’s shin with his toes.

“Prove it,” said Bucky.

“ _You_ prove it.” Steve shoved back his chair. “But I think I’m coming down with something, so you probably don’t want to kiss my mouth.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “You are terrible,” he said, and stood up.

 

But later, with some urgency, curled around Steve in their bed, he said, “You’re alright, though, right?”

On the edge of sleep, Steve mumbled, “What?”

“You said you were coming down with something.”

“Just a cold. The usual.” Steve’s eyes were closed and his body cosy, Bucky’s warm, rough hand pressed to his irregular heartbeat. His stronger ear was pressed into the pillow, so he thought at first that he misheard Bucky’s next words. “Whassat?” He rolled over.

“I got called up,” said Bucky, louder, hand still on Steve, though he wouldn’t meet Steve’s eyes.

Steve froze.

“Now, don’t blow a gasket, babe.” 

But Steve panicked. He pushed him down and kissed him fiercely, which was cheating—he knew it, Bucky knew it—but it was all he could do. He kissed Bucky until he recognised a twist in his stomach, then ran to the kitchen and vomited into the sink until he retched blankly, his vision blurred and shoulders cramping. He felt Bucky’s presence even before he pressed a cool, damp washcloth to the back of Steve’s neck.

“Tilt your head up,” he said. “At least your nose isn’t bleeding.”

Leaning heavily on the counter, Steve rinsed his mouth, grateful to find it clear of blood. (He remembered the last time Sarah left their apartment.) He rinsed and spat, rinsed and spat. “When?”

“Today.”

“So you weren’t just peeved about Freud.” 

“You know how I feel about—about going, Steve.”

He did; they had fought over his pacifism before ( _it’s not_ isolationism _, Steve, I’m not like_ Lindbergh, _listen to me, you’ve seen my dad, it's just there has to be a better way_ )—not to mention Bucky’s stubborn insistence that he couldn’t leave Steve, but still, it was all Steve could do to keep from shouting, _I can’t be your excuse, I can’t, but also don’t go, please, please._ He didn’t know what he wanted. 

“You’re good at getting into fights,” said Bucky, “and I’m good at staying out of them. Together we could almost make a good person. And Freud is— _feh!_ ” Bucky waved his hand, dismissive. “I’ve had it with Freud, but Steve—They drove the man out of his own country, they—” He turned on his heel without another word, leaving Steve in the dark. 

A minute passed, then two, then five. Steve washed his face. If he strained his ear, he could hear Bucky choking out smothered tears in the front room, and so lingered at the sink, not wanting to embarrass him, but not wanting to go back to bed without him either. Finally, he shuffled shamefacedly to sit next to him on the couch. Stiff and aloof, eyes downcast, Bucky turned from Steve’s touch and met his whispered apology with silence.

“I’ve sucked you off,” said Steve, trying for a lover’s levity, “I think you can cry in front of me.”

Bucky dragged the back of his hand across his eyes and said, dully, “Fuck you.” 

“Okay,” said Steve, again trying for a laugh.

“ _Steve_ ,” said Bucky, and hiccupped. 

Steve reached his skinny arm around Bucky’s broad shoulders, squeezed, and said, “Tell me what to say, then. Sugar, please—Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

“Me tell you what to do?” Bucky shrugged him off. “I’m not your ma, I can’t—You think I’m a coward.”

“ _No_ ,” said Steve. “I don’t—Okay, I don’t understand why you—with the war—but Buck, I’ll never think that— _Never_.

Bucky made a face.

“I swear, Buck—On my mam’s—”

“Okay!” The interruption was sharp. “I get it. Good night.”

“No, you have to listen,” said Steve, “because if you ever think that’s what I think about you, fuck, it isn’t.” He pressed his forehead against Bucky’s and Bucky didn’t pull away. “I’m—This is—I’m _jealous_ , okay? Because you can choose. You’re scared and you’re mad, but you still got a choice, if you really wanted you could object, and I don’t have that. I could go to every office from here to Jersey”— _And I will_ , he thought—“but they’re not gonna look at me twice.”

“Choice?” Bucky glared. “ _Choice_? You really think I’m gonna object?”

“You co—”

“You’d hate me, for one.”

“I _wouldn’t_.”

“You _would_ —Right up until you starved to death because there’s no wage for conscientious objectors, they’d just throw my sorry ass in jail. For two, you _know_ what’s happening over there as well as I do. I couldn’t”

“ _You’re_ the one that thinks you’re a coward, Buck, and you’re _not_ —I _know_ you’re not. You could be a non-combatant.”

“Don’t give me advice.”

“Fine.”

They glared at each other until Bucky said, “Your hands are freezing.”

“What,” said Steve, thrown off-kilter. 

“Ice-cold,” said Bucky. “It's _June_ , you little punk. C’mere.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but turned round, and Bucky pulled him closer, into his lap, and kissed the back of his neck, tugging one of Sarah’s old knit afghans overtop them. “My _oytzer_ ,” he whispered, so quietly that Steve thought he perhaps wasn’t meant to hear, and only did because Bucky’s mouth was so close to his ear. They should have been terrified—Scared for themselves, for Bucky’s family, for the world as it slipped into such ugly chaos. They were shit-broke, too, again, and Steve knew that Bucky would try to push him into factory work, keep him from enlisting, still, Steve sometimes thought, barely convinced that he could walk and form sentences at the same time without hurting himself, but all the same… There, then, he was warm, held tight against Bucky’s chest. “When do you have to go?”

“Saturday,” said Bucky, pressing soft kisses against his neck. “They said pack for three days. But don’t think about it, don’t. For me. And don’t find her while I’m gone.”

“Her?” said Steve, absently, leaning into Bucky’s touch.

“ _Her_.” Bucky still kissed him, but his voice was rough. “Your soulmate.”

“Might not be a her.” Steve is teasing and serious at the same time. 

“Don’t find _them_ , then. You think you got the monopoly on jealousy?

“Bucky, I—”

“No, nevermind, don’t think about it, not now.” He kissed Steve’s ear. “For me, ‘kay? For me?”

“Anything for you, sugar,” said Steve. “I _love_ you, Barnes.” He gasped, then, as Bucky slipped a hand between his legs. “Buck, wait. You already—I should—Your turn—”

“After,” said Bucky. “Do me after. We got plenty of time.”

Steve let him lie. 

 

**Present Day**

**New York City**

**[ — — — ]**

 

Tony’s idea of “fresh air” is driving, apparently aimlessly, all over the city, but Steve has to admit that the companionable silence settles his mind: Obliged to follow, he’s obliged to relax. “Where are we going?”

“Nowhere in particular,” says Tony. “Just driving. Unless you wanted somewhere in particular? Me, I just like cruising. I only came over to ask if you wanted to hang out, anyway.”

It occurs to Steve that driving may be as close as Tony can get to running away without _actually_ running away—Plus, they don’t have to look at each other. “I’m sorry I wasn’t making much sense back there.”

“I never make much sense in the middle of a project.” ( _Howard didn’t either_ , thinks Steve.) “And I’d never scoff at someone who wants to learn how machines work.” He inhaled sharply. “Look, my brain is as much of a minefield, okay? But if you want to—Talk about it, or whatever?” After a pause, he added, “Okay, what were you talking about back there, with Jarvis and Zola and all that?”

Steve doesn’t know where to begin. The trouble with keeping things to yourself was that once you’d waited long enough, it was almost impossible to _start_ talking, the mere prospect insurmountably daunting. Talking to Bucky had been different, because Bucky already knew everything about him. 

“Earth to Cap?”

He starts. 

“Man, you are out of it. What are you thinking about?”

“Bucky,” says Steve. And that’s it, that’s the root of it all, everything, so he might as well be honest.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t find him,” says Tony, looking straight ahead. His hands are tight on the steering wheel. 

“Yet,” says Steve, even while kicking himself, remembering Tony’s stake in the Winter Soldier’s history. 

“Right.” Tony honks and curses as a cabbie cuts them off in an illegal left turn, then snaps, “Jarvis, report that bastard to his dispatch!”

Steve chuckles at Tony’s anger and at the thought of a cabbie with no idea he’d cut off Iron Man, but Tony shoots him a quelling glare and says, “You can keep your fondness for near-death experiences to yourself.”

“Tony, it’s fine. I’ve been in worse accidents, and recently.” ( _Bucky tearing the wheel from Sam’s grip. Skidding across the pavement, holding ‘Tasha and Sam as tightly as he could_.)

“I’m a cautious driver,” says Tony, crisply.

Steve can’t shut off the sudden mental slideshow: Howard and his wife, the wreck, blood on the highway. Bucky. “Sorry, I was out of line, I—”

Tony waves a hand, dismissive. “Enough about me. We’re talking about your frosty friend and if I’ve got a mind half as sharp as I think I do, I think I know what your problem is.”

“You do?” Steve is surprised— _He’s_ not even sure what his problem is, so he’s keen to hear Tony’s guess.

“Man and machine,” says Tony. “Jarvis, this Zola character—Me, even, with the suit—and Old Man Winter, of course. Where do the cybernetics end and the emotional baggage begin? Is your friend still your friend? Is he still a person?” He side-eyes Steve. “Hot or cold?”

“I was never worried about whether _Bucky_ was a person,” says Steve, softly, using all the words he can muster without cracking. “But yeah, that’s part of it.”

 

**July 1939**

**New York City**

**Death**

 

He had been eager for it, excited, but in the end, 1939 hit Steve like a knockout punch. All through the winter, Sarah had spat blood into the sink and wouldn’t admit it, while one spring afternoon, Steve found her and Winnie Barnes clasping hands and crying softly at the table, a handful of battered letters pushed to the side. (“I can’t tell my mother what’s in these,” said Winnie. “We thought it’d get better, but the things they say—How could I tell her?”) Sarah had already been let go from the hospital and though she, like many of her friends, sought private work, she was often unwell, and the more she was laid up at home, the less money came in and the less time Steve—already tied up with his work and with school—had to spend alone with Bucky, who was being run ragged at his own job. She said, “Steven, I’d leave you alone if I could, I know what it means to you,” and he told her not to be silly, she couldn’t leave him. And then before he knew it, it was summer in New York and he had plenty of time alone, because she was gone.

Gone and she wasn’t coming back. 

 

His twenty-first birthday was a bright spot, of sorts, if only because he’d anticipated it for so long. Though he’d been forced to drop out of school that spring and though he woke alone—Bucky must have had an early shift and forgotten to mention it—he still stumbled excitedly to his feet, stripped, and examined his body. Wrapped around his calf, written in a spiky half-cursive, were the words, _Did you have something against running away?_ He grinned. It certainly _sounded_ like something Bucky would say. Bucky was sure to have a Mark, now, and it was _sure_ to match his, and so Steve spent the morning in jittery anticipation, forcing himself to concentrate long enough to finish two commissioned illustrations and get to the diner on time. 

Jackie Meaney turned up at the kitchen near the end of Steve’s shift, hat in hand. “Many happy returns,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb. He dug in his pocket. “Also, can you give this to Buck, since you’ll see him before I do?” Steve wiped his hands on the tea-towel jammed in his back pocket, then took the envelope Jackie offered. It was Bucky’s pay-packet. Jackie shrugged. “Too bad he’s sick on your birthday. Me and Marjorie wanted to take you out, celebrate your Mark—Maybe on the weekend? Go dancing?”

“He’s sick?” Steve frowned; Bucky would drag both feet out of the grave to get to work. 

“I assumed,” said Jackie, now looking confused. “He wasn’t in today, is all.”

Steve chewed his lip. “Probably got the flu from me,” he said, with feigned casualness. “I’m always the the latest and greatest in diseases.”

Jackie laughed. “As long as it’s no social disease.”

“Fuck off,” said Steve, without heat. 

“Look, I gotta dash,” said Jackie. “Say hi to Buck for me.”

“I’ll talk to you ‘bout the weekend,” said Steve absently, still holding Bucky’s pay-packet—His boss did payroll on Tuesdays, half from basic pigheadedness and half from trying to keep the guys from blowing their cash on weekends. He and Bucky, like so many others, were living hand-to-mouth: He wouldn’t miss payday, nor give his boss a chance to dock him or worse, fire him. 

 

The apartment was empty when Steve got home at half past eight. He had been starving, having skipped spending money at the diner, but faced with empty rooms—an overwhelming emptiness, no Sarah, no Bucky having let himself in with the spare key—he suddenly didn’t feel much like eating. He wasn’t _worried_ , he was sure Bucky was _fine_ , but if he was honest, he was hurt that Bucky was in the wind on his Mark Day. And he wasn’t going to fret like some mother hen (he remembered Sarah’s distress, the first time he stayed out all night), but what _if_ something had happened to him? He had never _disappeared_ like that. They'd been banking on matching each other, so if Bucky had woken that morning and found himself still without a Mark… He wouldn’t do anything reckless—Would he? Steve put a half-finished commission away, then worked out his frustrations on a pile of laundry, but the lot of it was hung to dry by eleven and Bucky still hadn’t appeared. Steve gnawed his thumbnail and considered going to the Barnes’s, only he’d feel ridiculous, making a fuss over his own birthday like a little kid.

 

Bucky slammed through Steve’s door at half past two in the morning, startling the half-dozing Steve into falling off the couch. He sprang up, knees stinging and eyes bleary, and shouted, “What is wrong with you? Where the hell have you been?”

The sparkle in Bucky’s eyes and the lightness in his step vanished. He shoved his hands in his pockets and said, “No, Steve, _no_ ,” then clapped his hand over his mouth. 

The penny dropped for Steve, then, because “No, Steve, _no_ ” were not the words inscribed on his calf that morning. “You were trying to prompt it,” said Steve, slowly. “You got a Mark and you were trying to prompt it.”

Bucky disappeared into the bedroom, returning a moment later with his sleeves pushed up and a bandage wrapped around his forearm. 

Steve was dazed. “You got a Mark,” he said, trying to salvage the moment. “That’s, um—That’s good.” _It_ was _good_ , he told himself. He was glad for Bucky, who had been miserable at the prospect of still having no Mark, no matter what Steve said, no matter how strange it was for Bucky’s Mark to appear so late after his twenty-first birthday when he and Steve were _still_ unmatched. It was good, it was a good thing that had happened. “Isn’t it?”

“Don’t ask me to show you,” said Bucky, and fell into the couch, his face in his hands. 

Steve stood a few feet away, uncertain and unhappy. Then, he curled his fists at his sides and heard Sarah’s voice in his head. _You have to look out for each other_. He strode past Bucky and into the kitchen, then pushed a chair against the counter, and climbed up, rooting in the back of the cupboard. That done, he poured two stiff drinks and returned to the front room to push one into Bucky’s hand. “Drink it all,” he ordered, “then stand up and look at me.” Bucky knocked it back, spluttering, and Steve did the same, then repeated himself. 

Bucky stood.

“This is no good,” said Steve.

“No kidding.”

“I mean it,” said Steve. “This whole thing, it’s pathetic.”

“You wanna talk about pathetic? I got noth—”

“No,” said Steve, and poked Bucky in the chest with a skinny finger. “You got me, for one, and for two, you have always had more than that.” The room spun a bit; he was tired and angry and had drunk the whiskey very quickly. “I can get by on my own and so can you, you understand?”

Voice wobbling, Bucky said, “You want me to go?”

“Fuck no,” said Steve. “We _could_ go it alone, is what I’m saying, but we’re _not going to_. You said we didn’t have to, after Mam’s funeral, remember?” He pointed at his leg, his Mark visible below the cuff of his too-short pants. “Maybe I’ll never find them. Maybe you’ll never find yours. Maybe I’ll die first, shut up, it could happen. But if you’re going to stick it out with me, Barnes, then come to bed, now. And—And—” He was afraid, suddenly, that Bucky would refuse him, but still he said, “Make it _your_ bed. For good.” 

"Do you mean—”

“It’s not the _spare_ key, Barnes—It’s _your_ key.” Steve marched out, praying that Bucky would follow.

He did. 

 

**Present Day**

**New York City**

**[ — — — ]**

 

Brooklyn passes outside the window and Steve wonders if their route is intentional or if Tony’s just drifting. _Possibly_ , he thinks, _Tony’s been drifting for a long, long time._ “Bucky was a scientist, you know—Or, he would have been, if he’d had the chance.” He sighs. “We were broke and even then, he’d have had a hell of a time finding a school.”

“Why?”

“Because—” Steve pauses; it isn’t a secret, but instead something—an essential truth, _Steve_ thinks, at least—that has been reduced to a historical footnote, instead of what it was: Something that twined through every day of Bucky’s life. He remembers Bucky’s bar mitzvah and two days after, too, Bucky sitting by the front door, back in his good suit but trembling with fear, Winnie in labour in the next room. “Because he was Jewish.” Steve will never release his bitterness, his anger for all Bucky had been denied. “He would have loved what you do, Tony. You should have seen him, dragging me to the Stark Expo in ’43, he idolised Howa—” He blinks.

“Go on,” says Tony, with a white-knuckled grip on the wheel. “Don’t stop on my account. You know I love a good Howard story.” He gives his head a brisk shake, then says more gently, “This car has an ejector seat. If I didn’t want to hear it, you’d know.”

Steve casts a sidelong glance at Tony, but goes on. “Bucky, he was interested in everything, but biology and chemistry, in particular—He wanted to know how soulmates worked. And I couldn’t have cared less, at least not until after the serum. Because I was worried—” He coughs, mouth suddenly dry. 

“You want donuts?” Tony flicks his signal, then changes lanes. “I want donuts. Keep talking, I got this.”

Tony orders two extra-large coffees and a half-dozen apple fritters at a nearby drive-thru, and Steve explains, “I thought the serum had changed me—Too much, I mean. Bucky thought I was full of shit and we fought about it. ( _You telling me you think that supersoldier magic potion cured you of me?_ )

“What do you mean by ‘too much?’”

“What if—” Steve’s voice is thick and his throat aches, it’s difficult to speak, but he _wants_ to. “Dr. Erskine said the serum would magnify everything, but what if it changed—How I felt and what I wanted? And if it could do that, what if I wasn’t a person? If I was nothing but a—a thing run on chemicals?”

“We’re all things run on chemicals, Capsicle.”

Steve knocks his head back against the seat, laughing and angry all at once. “That is exactly what he said.” Suddenly exhausted, he rubs his face, suddenly exhausted, thinks of talking with Sam and with ‘Tasha, and in that moment, gives up on keeping secrets, because—“G-d, he was gorgeous.”

“Interesting, um, word choice,” says Tony, darting Steve a quick, quizzical look.

“You must have seen pictures,” says Steve, defensive. “Only thing better than Bucky in uniform would have been Bucky _out_ of uniform, and—” His seatbelt is suddenly tight against his chest and throat, because Tony has dropped coffee in his lap and slammed on the brakes, cursing a blue streak. 

Steve looks around frantically for collision damage—A dog? A pedestrian? “What happened? What did we hit?”

“Jarvis,” says Tony, “park this car before I get us killed. Shit, this coffee is hot. He plucks at his damp pant-leg while Jarvis parallel-parks them outside a bodega. “Rogers, are you saying that you and Barnes—”

Steve’s stomach flips. He shouldn’t have mentioned it so casually, he knew it. It was only that Sam and ‘Tasha had been so kind, he’d gotten cocky, _Oh shit._ “Don’t think I don’t know about your childhood obsession with Captain America,” he says, trying for humour. “It’s not like this is news.”

Tony splutters, “Not—news? That Captain America and Bucky fucking Barnes—”

Steve folds his arms and tries to look as severe as he can toward a man with the advantage of fifteen years and multiple doctorates. “We were together for years, Tony. Nobody says anything, but I know you all know. Everybody knows.”

Tony, who had been futilely wiping his pants with a crumpled Kleenex, leaving specks of white all down the fabric, goggles. “No, Capsicle,” he says. “Everybody does _not_ know. I’d wager _nobody_ knows.”

Steve really cannot believe his life sometimes.

 

**March 1938**

**New York City**

**Mark Day**

 

Fever clung to him and trapped him. His body was _his_ and he loved it, or _wanted_ to, but could it never cooperate? He was in his own bed, he was pretty sure, and he heard Sarah’s voice, but where was she? The hospital? Was he in the hospital? Would they inject him with theophylline again? He shrunk from the thought in fear, then in the midst of his dream heard Bucky, felt hands on him and his body burning. He slid downward. He disappeared.

 

And woke later starving, shaking, and wanting nothing but Sarah, looking automatically to the end of the bed. She wasn’t there, but he’d been certain… Street lamps flickered and light bled through the thin curtains, enough—added to March’s chilly bite and Steve’s shifting—to wake Bucky, who had crammed his unwieldy, just-past-teenage body next to him in the bed. He slept heavily, most of the time, and must have been tense to wake so easily. Steve didn’t remember Bucky’s arrival, yet wasn’t surprised to find him, even so near; still he searched the room’s murky darkness for Sarah.

“Y’okay?” Bucky’s voice was strained with sleep, but urgent. 

“Is my mam here?” Steve was certain he heard her, seen her standing over him, and her absence seemed to crush his ribs.

“She’s not here,” said Bucky, gently but firmly closing his hand around Steve’s arm like he thought Steve might make a break for it. “She’s at work. You got to take it easy, pal, ‘kay? You cut it pretty close.”

“I’m not a kid,” said Steve, irritated, tugging his arm free. “I’m fine.” He watched the darkness, still, and he was frightened, because he was certain he saw Sarah’s shape in the shadows and if it wasn’t her, it was a ghost, and if it was a ghost, then she was—Steve shuddered, carrying his mother’s superstitions. 

“Nobody here but us chickens,” said Bucky, in the voice he used to talk Steve down from fights.

It rarely worked, but this time, Steve flopped back onto the bed, exhausted, and he could _feel_ Bucky’s relief in his own body’s relaxation. Eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could see him, too: Hair mussed, clothes wrinkled, eyes narrowed with concern, broad hands now clutching the blanket. “How long was I out?”

“Two days,” said Bucky. He brushed back his hair. “Steve, you can’t _do_ that to a guy.”

“How do you think I feel?” Steve tried to joke, but he didn’t have the heart for it. “What’d I miss?”

“Dinner with my parents,” said Bucky. “Ma’s off her head worrying about you, by the way, and the girls, too—They are _mad_ about you. And Marjorie O’Connell’s wedding—Though I’m told the new Mr. and Mrs. Meaney cut a very fine pair.”

“You didn’t go?” Steve was genuinely saddened to have missed it. Marjorie had been his first girl (and his first _first_ ) and they were still good friends: Theirs had been a personable parting, and he remembered her delight at stumbling—literally—across her soulmate, Jackie, at the shop where she worked.

“‘Did I go,’ he wants to know,” said Bucky, wrinkling his nose. “Not with you threatening to shuffle off the coil, no, I did not.”

“I’m sorry you missed the party,” said Steve, sheepish, then gasped. “Bucky! Your birthday!”

Bucky shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Rather be here.”

Steve blushed. “But your Mark Day, Bucky—And I missed it.” It was a milestone birthday, the most important,and he _missed_ it. He waited, expectant, then when Bucky didn’t bite, prompted, “Aren’t you gonna show me?”

“Show you what?”

“Don’t be a wiseguy—Your Mark! What does it say?”

Bucky’s nostrils flared and he looked away. 

Steve was stung; they shared everything. 

“I don’t—” Bucky grimaced.

“You don’t have to say,” said Steve, failing to be convincing, his head still fogged with fever. Why wouldn’t Bucky want to show him? A thought struck him: Had Bucky already found his soulmate? Did Steve miss _everything_ while sick yet _again_? He hated his body sometimes! And if Bucky was going to leave him… 

Bucky sucked his teeth, then said, hurriedly, “Idon’thaveone.”

“What?”

“I. Don’t. Have. One,” he gritted out. “It didn’t happen. It’s been three days and it didn’t happen, so I’m—” He lifted his head, his jaw set. “I couldn’t care less, really.” He straightened the blankets around Steve, taking care not to jostle him while slipping into the space between bed and wall himself, and it was obvious he cared a lot. He fussed with the blanket’s frayed edge.

Steve, without thinking, grabbed his hand and said, “It’s okay—You know it’s alright? There’s plenty of reasons—” He meant only to comfort him, friends, but then remembered with a flash all through him his own birthday five years before, pressing his mouth against Bucky’s on the fourth of July, that one time, and he stopped talking. He’d had a steady girl, Bucky’d had lots—had one, right then—but… Could that be why he was so upset? Or was it the prospect of being unmatched? Steve wouldn’t think any less of him—He could never! 

“I wanted—” Bucky stopped, jaw working. He yanked his hand free of Steve’s and shivered. “Estee cut me loose,” he said. “When I told her. Said she doesn’t mess around with Marked guys.”

Steve thought of her, the girl Bucky’d been going with for the past few months; she was nice, fun—and smart! Steve thought she’d been good for Bucky, as far as such things went—Kept him on his toes. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s alright.” Bucky looked down. “I didn’t want it to be her.”

Steve blinked several times in a row. “Did you want it to be. Someone. In particular?”

“Not Estee.”

“Why?”

“ _Because_. Why are you giving me the third degree?”

“Geez, I was just asking,” said Steve, drawing back. The argument should have been comical, Bucky sliding off the bed, Steve stewing in indignation, the two of them rumpled in the semi-darkness, but it wasn’t. He had rarely seen Bucky so upset. Steve closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “In the closet. Under the sketchbooks.”

“What?”

“Go and see,” said Steve.

Bucky grumbled, but did as Steve said, hissing softly when his feet hit the cold floor, then rummaged in the closet. “This packet?”

“Yeah,” said Steve. “Bring it here.”

He did and Steve struggled to sit up, bracing himself against the wall. “Good thing I planned ahead,” he said. “Open it—It’s your birthday gift.” He was suddenly embarrassed by it, afraid that it was both too much and too little, no matter how he worked on it for weeks, perfecting the single, intricate illustration: The Barnes’s apartment building, the clothes on the line, the cracked pavement, the brickwork, Bucky’s sisters on the stoop. The wrappings rustled and Steve’s heart pounded.

“Steve,” said Bucky, “this is—”

He looked up to find Bucky shaking his head and—worried that he was disappointed—blurted, “I know it’s not much and I could do better and—”

“ _Steve_ ,” said Bucky, and grabbed his ankle. “You made this for _me_? You could _sell_ this.” He had wonder in his voice—Sounded like he did when he described machines to Steve, or talked about the latest book he was reading.

“Well, um,” said Steve. “ _L’chaim_.” He flicked Bucky’s shoulder.

“You keep trying, but you never get the words quite right,” said Bucky, shaking his head in mostly fond exasperation. “But _this_ —this is something else.” He repacked his illustration, laying it carefully on the floor, out of the way, where it couldn’t be stepped on, then sat back down, wringing his hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about not having a Mark.”

“You shouldn’t have to tell me,” said Steve, knowing this was true though he didn’t like it. “I wanted to know, but if you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to.” 

“I wanted—” Bucky punched his fist against his palm, a cold smack. “I wanted it to be you.”

Steve’s heart stuttered. He was sure his ear was playing tricks on him. “What?” 

“So bad, I wanted it, you and me.”

Steve mouthed the words to himself. _You and me_.

“And then there was—Nothing. Unmatched, ha!” Bucky’s laugh was raw. “My dad, he’s disappointed. He’s trying not to show me, but I can tell. All ‘free love’ and ‘no religion’ until it’s _his_ kid breaking with tradition.” He laughed again, that same bloodiness. “About being unmatched, I mean. I didn’t tell him about the _you_ part.”

Flabbergasted, Steve said nothing. To be unmatched was rare, though not unheard of, but it was far more common to miss your soulmate—illness, death, distance—and far more sympathetic as well. There was less sympathy for the unmatched then there was for queer soulmates, much less people outside soulmate pairs, and— _That_ thought finally got the gears grinding in his brain and he realised what Bucky had laid at his feet.

“I’ll go then, I suppose,” said Bucky. “Get out of here.”

Steve grabbed his wrist and gasped, “No, wait, this is good, isn’t it?” His mind was disordered with excitement. He remembered kissing Bucky all those years ago, that one night, and suddenly, desperately, he wanted to do it again.

Bucky glowered. “I don’t see much good about it. I shouldn’t have said nothing, you really need to rest, I’ll tell your ma—”

But Steve tightened his grip and said, “ _Listen_ , you jerk—It’s me, I’m not twenty-one yet, _get it_?”

Bucky’s smile changed his face entirely, a sunrise on him, relief like even Steve couldn’t have imagined, realising what he’d forgotten. Easy enough to do, all the hustle and bustle, Steve knocking at death’s door, Marjorie’s wedding, his own birthday—Easy to see how he could have forgotten that if you’re older than your soulmate, sometimes, sometimes, your Mark might not appear until theirs did. Then his relief faded. He bit his lip and looked down at his feet, then said something so quietly that Steve couldn’t make it out.

Annoyed, Steve made a face, pointed to his ear, and said, “Still fucking deaf, Barnes.”

“I said, you’re a right riot when you’re on a fever,” said Bucky, loud and brittle. “You hate it when people pity you, pal, so cut me a break, because I don’t much feel like joking, and—”

“Ask me again in the morning,” said Steve, who didn’t even know what time it is, then, nor even the day of the week, but in a voice as serious as he could muster. Fever dregs and days-old clothes or no, he wanted to push Bucky down on the bed and please him. He had absolutely no idea how to do such a thing, much less do it well, but he wanted to.

“You’re ma’ll be off-shift, then,” said Bucky. “She’s done at six. A couple of hours, now, I guess, so I can leave you alone until—”

“Let’s eat,” said Steve, because he hadn’t eaten in days and because he didn’t know what else to say to keep Bucky close. 

“If you—If you want,” said Bucky, and he let Steve hobble out to the kitchen where they picked at the morning’s soda-bread and he rustled up a pot of coffee. It was still dark when they finished and despite the coffee, Steve was groggy again, nodding at the table until Bucky took his arm and tugged him back to bed. 

“Stay,” he said, pushing himself against the wall, making room. “Buck, you should stay.”

“Steve—”

“You’re a grown man,” he said. “Just stay.”

He did and Steve was paralysingly nervous, for all they barely touched beneath the blankets, until he wondered if this was really such a good idea—If he’d pushed Bucky too hard, if Bucky would bolt. 

“It’s okay if you don’t want to, tomorrow,” said Bucky, his body rigid next to Steve's. “When you think about it some more. I won’t say nothing.”

“Bucky,” said Steve, using his _very serious_ voice, the one that meant, _no ribbing, don’t argue, I’m dead serious_ , and Bucky’s eyes were intent on him. “I mean it, I really mean it.”

Bucky bit his lip. He stared. He said, “That is—Do you—”

“ _Yes_.” Steve was cloud-high on the first feelings of health after fever and the joyful _impossibility_ being realised right before his eyes. “Trust me, you jerk, when I tell you.”

_“Steve_.” Bucky’s eyes widened. “Steve, that is _fantastic_. I didn't think you wanted to, before, on your birthday, before—I thought maybe I made you and I felt like shit for it and—”

Steve kissed him, then—Pushed him against the bed, kissed him, and sprawled across him, already breathing hard, and when Bucky laughed, felt the rumble in his own chest.

He brushed Steve’s hair back gently, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch, and said, haltingly, “I hate to break it to you, pal, but you smell.”

Steve rolled off him, blushing again and thinking maybe Bucky didn’t want to be kissing him, maybe ever again, _oh shit_.

But Bucky squeezed his hip and said, “Why wouldn’t you? You been asleep for days in the same clothes.”

Steve mirrored Bucky’s grip, watching his face, the space between them charged and heavy.

“I never thought,” said Bucky, “I never thought that—You—”

“ _I_ thought,” said Steve, earnest. “I thought about you plenty.” He was still embarrassed but trying to make up for it when he said, “I could—Instead—Can I, um, touch—you?” He closed his eyes. He thought he’d be better at this, after Marjorie. _Apparently not_.

“If you—want?”

He wondered if he imagined the pause, or if Bucky was as shy as he was. “Do _you_ want?”

Bucky nodded, then nodded again, so Steve slid his hand down and did—did his very best—and after, they slept, still time enough before daybreak, pressed together, sweating and stinking and satisfied. 

 

He woke once more that night to the click and creak of the bedroom door and even through his sleep- and sex- and fever-fogged brain, he knew two things: For one, Bucky still slept, heavy and steady and half on top of him, fingers curled into his hair and face mashed against his throat, and for two, Sarah had entered the room and he had no time to move. He froze, eyes closed and breath forced to steadiness, the illusion of sleep. Bucky, still sleeping like the dead, shifted and mumbled, but otherwise didn’t move.

Sarah’s footsteps sounded, padding toward the bed.

Steve’s heart thudded.

But she only clicked her tongue and said, “Ah, _mo chuisle_.” Her fingertips brushed his forehead, then pulled back.

_Don’t move_ , thought Steve. _Don’t. Move._  

“You couldn’t make it easy for yourselves,” said Sarah. She was silent a time and Steve concentrated only on remaining still. “My boys,” she said, and brushed his forehead again, pushing back his hair. “My boys, you have to look out for each other.” She coughed, a half-suppressed rattle and said, “ _Sail fada agus breac-shláinte chug_ , Lord willing,” then left the room as quietly as she’d arrived, though Steve heard her coughing in the hall. 

He was even more confused. She had seen them, no mistaking what they’d done, what they were, and she had—Let them be. Said, “ _Long life and fair health to you_ ,” if he’d heard right. Said, “ _my_ boys.” She loved him, still. 

Fortified and ready for anything, he rustled the covers, seeking Bucky’s hand. He had always been younger, always been sicker, but this was his chance to be stronger. He _knew_ they would be matched. Might as well set their watches for the Fourth of July, 1939. 

 

**Present Day**

**New York City**

**[ — — — ]**

 

The car is too confined and Steve feels like his asthma’s come back with a vengeance. He unclips his belt without another word, then opens the door and steps onto the sidewalk. With no idea where he is or where he’s going, he starts walking, not even looking back at Tony’s shouted, “Cap—Steve, wait, hold up!” He moves quickly, but doesn’t run, which lets Tony catch up with him, though the smaller man is gasping when he does.

“Steve,” he says. “It’s okay. I was just. Surprised. Is all.” He clings to Steve’s arm and Steve can’t help the fondness that wells up in him as his panic subsides. “You know,” he says, wheezing. “That it’s. Alright. Right?”

He pats Tony’s shoulder. “Rest assured, I am long since reconciled with who I am.” ( _You telling me you think that supersoldier magic potion cured you of me?_ ) He tugs Tony to the sidewalk’s inner edge, out of the way of irritated pedestrians. “But we never—We never really kept it a secret. I mean, we never made time in front of cops or Colonel Phillips or anything, and no one in the army, for sure, but when we were younger, in Brooklyn—Our friends knew. Hell, my mam knew.” ( _Long life and fair health to you, Lord willing._ )

“Your _mother_? It was the _forties_.”

“Thirties, at that point,” says Steve, drily. “We still kept it pretty hushed up. Bucky thought his parents were onto us, but he  didn’t— Look, this must have come up in the biographies.”

“You’ve never read them? Not even one?”

“They make me uncomfortable.”

“ _I_ read them all,” says Tony, “and there was some _fringe_ speculation, yeah, but—”

Steve interrupts. “You read them _all_?”

Tony waves a dismissive hand. “I went through a phase. Also, we’re not talking about me.”

Steve thinks back to Brooklyn, _his_ Brooklyn, and Marjorie, Jackie, Connie, Bonnie, and the rest. None of them had told. They must have been interviewed once his name was revealed, after the war, and still they never told. He had tried so hard not to think of it that even the absence of mention in the Smithsonian Exhibit (only the cruel header, _A Fallen Comrade)_ hadn’t fazed him. He’d lost everything; what was one more thing? Anyway, he hadn’t needed to be reminded. 

“So let me get this straight, I mean, clear,” says Tony. “You thought everybody knew, you thought we, all your friends, knew that you lost your best friend, your _boyfriend_ , and that we just _weren’t bringing it up?_ ”

Steve pulls a face. “It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that, but yeah—I’m used to people not wanting to talk about it, I get it, and I spent a lot of time avoiding anything that made me think about—Him—So, yeah, I did. I mean, with the Avengers specifically, I thought you were being nice, or maybe thinking, still, I came from this mythical land where nobody ever had sex, but—”

Tony wraps his arms around Steve, face pressed into Steve’s shoulder.

“Um, Tony?”

“Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

“Hugging you, are you blind? I feel like you need a hug, possibly seventy years’ worth of hugs, and so I am taking initiative.”

Steve is about to brush him off, but that it feels good, really good, so he simply says, “Thanks.” Then, “It takes so long—To explain again and again, and I get so tired.”

“It’s okay,” says Tony, still squashed against him. “It’s gonna be okay. He’s not going to hurt you.”

“But he wouldn’t,” says Steve, confused by Tony’s response. “He won’t.”

“Were you soulmates?”

The moment is broken and Steve pulls away, his stomach twisting at that one barbed question. “No,” he says. “We weren’t.”

 

**July 1934**

**New York City**

**The Birds and the Bees**

 

Very, very early on the morning after his sixteenth birthday— _or perhaps_ , he thought, _very, very late on the day_ —Steve debated the best way to sneak into the apartment. The rusted metal on the fire escape would squeak, but would also take him straight to his bedroom, while the front entrance obliged him to tiptoe past Sarah’s door, so fire escape it was. Once inside, he quickly changed into his pyjamas, then mussed his hair as if he’d been asleep—after brushing away bits of grass—and crept into the kitchen for a glass of water.

Sarah sat at the table, still in her nurse’s uniform and with her hands wrapped around a chipped mug. “Where the fecking hell,” she said, quietly, “have you been?”

He considered the many avenues he might navigate in the argument—from sleepy denial to a sulky “ _out_ ” to an aloof insistence that, at sixteen, he hardly needed to tell her if he went out of an evening or not. Or he could tell her the truth. (As if!) In the end, he said nothing, because it was three o’clock in the morning: She’d left work at midnight, was due back at six, and Steve felt lower than dirt.

Sarah cocked an eyebrow. “My son with nothing to say, imagine that.”

He looked at his feet and wondered how well he could conceal the fact that he was kind of a little, just a bit, drunk.

“You’re lucky,” she said. “I thought I would have to go to the Barnes’s, only I figured that if you were with James, at least you wouldn’t be”—her face crumpled, though she quickly covered it with her hand—“dead in an alley.”

Remembering years before—Colin Martin, the alley, sobbing for breath, the boot in his ribs—Steve was staggered with guilt. He hadn’t planned for Sarah to catch him, so he’d never thought that she would worry, nor how. 

She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand while he lingered in the doorway. “I know you’re almost a grown man, Steven, I know, but you’re just getting over pneumonia and you’ve never said no to a fight in your life, and you’ve never—” She narrowed her eyes. “At least, I _think_ you’ve never snuck out before.”

“I’m sorry,” says Steve, collecting himself in the chair next to hers. “Honest, Mam, I really am. I was—out—with Bucky and we lost track of time. 

“Until _now_?” 

“Well, no, we noticed earlier,” Steve mumbled, “but we thought, you know, what they say about sheep and lambs. And. Hanging.”

“Steven Grant Rogers,” said Sarah, wrinkling her nose. “Have you been _drinking_?”

“No?”

She rubbed her forehead.

“Well. Not. Very much.”

“Were you out with a girl?”

He shook his head. 

“If you were in trouble, you would tell me?”

“Geez, Mam, what do you take me for? No, I wasn’t out with a girl, and no, I’m not in trouble.”

“I worry about you, on your own.”

But he had Bucky and her—He wasn’t on his own and his Mark Day, though it seemed impossibly far, five whole years away, would come soon enough. “I’m sorry I made you worry, really, I am. I’ll just—Go to bed, then?”

“On the subject of romance,” said Sarah, plunking down her mug and proving unwilling to let him off the hook so easily. “Let’s talk about VD.”

“ _Mam_.” If Steve’s _toes_ could blush, they would—The rest of him certainly was. “This is not—”

But Sarah was immovable. Sarah was the Rock of Gibraltar. “I’m a nurse,” she said. “Takes a whole fecking lot to shock me.”

Steve looked around the kitchen, over his shoulder—Anywhere to keep from looking at his mother, who seemed to think that staying out late left him bound to come home with _the Clap_ .  “This is not the sort of thing,” he said through his teeth, “that fellas talk about with their mothers.”

“I’d get your da to do it,” said Sarah, “but he’s not here.” She pointed a finger at him. “You be careful.”

Steve thought he might pass out.

“You gave me the scare of my life, so now you listen to me: You be careful and you be honest—With yourself and anyone in your bed, you understand me? You keep track of where you’ve been and you ask them, too. And don’t you _ever_ leave a girl in a bad way, Steven.” She gestured toward something on the table, which Steve recognised with a _ferocious_ blushing as a packet of condoms.

“Okay, yes, I understand.” He grimaced, even though mildly impressed with himself that his mother that _he_ was doing… _that_. “Thank you, I will keep that all in mind, can I go now?”

“To bed? Yes. But never do that to me again.” She frowned. “Come and give us a kiss, then.” 

He did, then took himself to bed, and only regretted his night when morning came and he felt like _death_.

 

He felt so terrible, in fact, he could not get up—Could only lay in his bed waiting for the room to stop spinning, grateful that Sarah was at work and so could not force him up. Then Bucky scaled the fire escape, crawling through Steve’s window frantic with apology, saying he never meant to get Steve blotto, and he was sorry, he was so sorry, and it took Steve the better part of an hour—head still _pounding_ —to calm him down. If he had thought that kind of crazy stuff—and he didn’t just mean the drinking—was something they might keep doing, Bucky’s frantic desperation suggested he keep it to himself. 

But they pulled through it: He got older. He got scarlet fever, he got better, he got pneumonia, he got better, and Bucky ran through a girlfriend or five, while Steve took up with Marjorie O’Connell, who was _gorgeous_ and so sweet, and by then, he was so in love with her that he didn’t know what to make of what had happened with Bucky that night, kissing him, just kissing him that one time, when they were were kids. Instead, he dreamt night after night of finding Marjorie’s words tattooed on his body, more than once waking convinced that he would, even though his Mark Day was distant.

And later, one autumn night, just him and Marjorie while her parents and sister were out, she ran her hands down his arms. Said, “Where do you think it will be, when you get it? Your Mark?” He tugged up her shirt and she slid her hands over his own bare ribs in the dark. “Here, or here, or here?”

 

**Present Day**

**New York City**

**[— — — ]**

 

When they’re back in the car, Steve says, “I’m surprised that you’re surprised, to be honest. You should know better than anyone that the public package doesn’t always match the person.”

“Are you saying—”

“That I don’t believe you, yourself, are summed up in Tony Stark, Registered Trademark? Yeah, I am.” Steve laughed. “With me, it’s just—It’s hard. I never used to be so private, but I woke up and people knew everything about me and I wanted—Something that was mine.”

_Rumlow._

_No—No more._

“Fame’s fickle that way,” says Tony. “Look, can I ask you a question?” He has given up the pretence of driving and leans back in his seat while Jarvis ferries them through Brooklyn. 

“I’d imagine you have a few.”

“Okay, this’ll seem blunt, and you don’t have—”

“You want to know about Peg.”

Tony says, quietly, “Yeah. You know she never confirmed that you two were soulmates—But she was good friends with my parents.” He scrunches his face. “Yeah, Aunt Peggy gave me more than one good pep talk over the years. By which I mean, smacking around. I mean—It was obvious, even to me, this self-absorbed teenage jackass, how much she cared about you.”

“Peg was—” Steve speaks around a blockage in his throat. The records office, the ring, the certificate—These he keeps to himself. “Peg _is_ my soulmate, as true in ’43 as now, but we kept it secret.”

“But why? It would have been great PR: Cap on the front lines with his special lady and all that jazz.”

Steve curls into himself, remembering his talk with Peg after Camp Lehigh—After they’d spoken, really spoken, for the first time, realised and compared their Marks and shaken the confident trajectory of Steve’s life, certainty, love to its foundations. He remembers, too, the burned-out bar and the rubble-blackened knees of his trousers. “It would have been good PR for _me_ , good PR for the army, but it would have been the end of her career. She took enough flak without anyone suggesting she got into the SSR because she was my soulmate—She was there first!”

“She was always cold,” says Tony. “She’d wear a sweater in the middle of an August heat-wave, we used to tease her—But that’s why: She was _linked_ to you.” He swallows. “What about Barnes?” He says the name like it hurts him to do it.

Steve looks out the window into the dusky sky. “I told Bucky, she told her best friend, but otherwise, it was hush-hush—And she kept it up, all her life.” The words come more easily, now. “I was sure Buck and I would never split, but then I met Peg and that was that—I loved her. I love her, now. But—” He stops. The last time he spoke these words he lost Bucky for more than seventy years. “What happened to everything I had for Bucky?” _Where do you get off,_ loved _? “_ Wasn’t it real? If it’s all just chemicals and electrical signals and—”

“Oh Jesus,” says Tony. “ _This_ is the immensely overcomplicated reason you want to learn to build computers?”

“Bit long-winded,” says Steve, rueful. “But yeah.”

“Steve, you’re not a machine.”

“Jarvis is a machine—What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, but Jarvis is Jarvis and you’re you—You’re not programmable.”

“What am I?” He ticks features off on his fingers: “Steve Rogers like Harry James and Degas and Noguchi, cornflakes and black coffee and wearing my hair short and the colour red, once I was finally able to to see it, and watercolours, but not oils—”

“Look, did you ever read _The Bicentennial Man_?”

“That’s Asimov, right?”

Tony nods.

Steve does as well. “I don’t remember it too well, though.” This is not entirely true. Bucky read just about everything he could get his hands on and while on the USO tour, Steve had mailed him new magazines whenever he could. Then, after the ice and waking up, he had picked out a selection for himself—anything he thought Bucky would have liked. He had felt a strange affinity for Asimov’s characters, something rare for him when reading, but he isn’t ready to get into that with Tony. 

“Okay,” says Tony, talking with his hands. “So the gist of it is, over the span of 200 years, this robot gets more and more ‘human’-like—he’s makes art, he wears clothes, he eats food, he modifies his systems so that he’ll ‘die.’” He raises an eyebrow. “Don’t make that face. I’m not done yet. Because all the time this is happening, the people around him are getting more and more, well, robotic, or so we’re meant to think: Machine limbs and synthetic organs and all—All things we welcome _now_ , but _they_ don’t want to let the robot into the club.”

“Am I the robot?”

“You’re not the robot. You’re not even a centennial man yet. Listen, please.”

Steve raises an eyebrow.

Tony’s eyes narrow. “Possibly you are the robot. But that wasn’t my original thought.”

“Oh, do tell,” says Steve, crossing his arms. “Don’t keep me waiting.” He’s smiling, though, and wonders in the back of his mind if _that_ had been Tony’s aim.

“Alright, stay with me.” Tony snaps his fingers. “So they have all these long, drawn-out court cases, is he human, is he not, is he allowed to have a bank account, allowed to be free—”

“You can’t be ‘allowed’ to be free,” Steve interrupts.

“Hush,” says Tony. “And in the end, he gets it. The court says, you know, box ticked, you’re a man, congrats, but since he modified his systems, the robot’s dying, and he doesn’t think about being a human or being a man, he just thinks about this girl he used to know.” He steeples his hands in front of his face and looks at Steve, expectant. “So what do you think it’s saying about being a person?”

“People die,” says Steve. 

“Okay—And?”

“If you say ‘people love,’ I am getting out of this car right now.”

“Some people do,” says Tony. “Not all of them.” He looks at his lap and Steve thinks he might be blushing. “ _I_ always thought,” he says, “that it was more about, you know, all these terms and conditions being totally arbitrary. You said you can’t be ‘allowed’ to be free?’”

Steve nods.

“Well, you can’t be ‘allowed’ to be a person—A court, say, can _recognise_ that you’re a person or _recognise_ your freedom, but that’s a whole other ballgame—Legal rights and all. Not less important, just different. Like, the robot always knew who he was, but he also wanted to be recognised. Fundamentally, the conditions are arbitrary. There’s no set list.” He sighs. “Humanity can only expand, Steve—It can’t claw back. You can't accept Jarvis but not yourself.”

“SHIELD tried to get me to sign papers releasing the composition of my blood for study. I’m not like other people.”

“Feelings change,” says Tony. “It’s shit, but that’s life. That’s what _people_ do.”

“But was it me? I mean, _really_ me?” Steve covers his face with his hands.

“It was—All the good and all the bad. And so what, not everybody’s good at love, but I think you are.”

Steve is silent.

“You say you know this,” says Tony, “but I’m gonna tell you again: There is nothing wrong with you—besides, maybe, an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. If the serum didn’t do something, or _did_ do something else—It doesn’t hold some cosmic significance and it isn’t the last word on what was ‘wrong’”—Tony bends his fingers in air quotes—“with you. It was made by a genius, yes, but not by an omnipotent one.” He harrumphs. “Plus your follow-up care was administered by a jackass.”

“They told me,” says Steve, “that Howard looked for me for years.”

Tony nods, a tiny movement. The car idles outside Steve’s building. “He thought Aunt Peggy’s Mark was a clue—It, I don’t know, it _flickered_ sometimes. She told him to get off her back.” He shivers. “That was a bad fight one summer, all us kids were there. I mean, just me on the Stark side, but some of Obie’s nephews and the Carter kids.” He taps the wheel, thinking. “This blonde girl, I remember her… Anyway, _I_ think—For him, his life was never as good as it was in the war. He felt bad for it, but still he was always trying to drag us all back.”

Steve feels a wrenching of misery for Peg’s sake and is briefly almost glad she forgets him. “But even if he did,” he says, “I know that doesn’t mean that he wasn’t a shit father.”

“Peggy always used to say she wished I could meet you. Guess we were all hot for you, in our own ways.” He exhales heavily, then shakes himself like a dog drying off. “Brr! Okay, how about we agree never to therapist each other ever, ever again? I came over to cheer _you_ up and I think we’re both worse off than before.”

“Thank you,” says Steve. “For listening. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

“It’s hard,” says Tony. “Coming out again and again, whatever it is—Like, not just sexuality, but out from under a shadow. I get it. And I’m not going to break your confidence, but will you think about talking to someone—Someone more professional than me?”

Steve hops out, then rounds the car to the driver’s side. “I’ll consider it.” Then, “Do you want—If you want—We could do lunch tomorrow?”

“Sounds good,” says Tony.

“Andrew,” says Steve, suddenly remembering.

“What?”

“The robot’s name was Andrew.” 

Tony nods. “Yeah,” he says. “It was.”

“Bucky’s a person, too.”

Tony honks twice as he drives away.

 

Steve is exhausted. His front room is still littered with computer parts, but he stumbles past to fall into bed. Tomorrow, he’ll make a plan, figure out what the hell he’s going to do—With his life? With a shrink? About Tony? Bucky? Peg? Who knows? He’s drifting into sleep within moments of sinking into bed. 

 

**July 1934**

**New York City**

**First Kiss**

 

Steve didn’t know the time, only that he and Bucky had been out all night. Earlier, it had been midnight, he remembered thinking Sarah was still at the hospital, but right then, he and Bucky were at the park and had drunk the bottles of whatever that Bucky got from wherever, then flopped down on the grass, and it was probably the best birthday Steve has had, ever, in his entire life.

“In my _entire life_ , Buck.” He swung out his arm for emphasis, smacking Bucky in the shoulder. “Whoops, sorry.” It was the best, though, because no one was fussing over him and his asthma wasn’t acting up: It was just him and Bucky, just being, and even though Bucky had seemed hesitant to let Steve drink, he’d brought the booze like he promised, then gotten over it. Bucky looked rather far-gone, trying to sit up, then flopping back down, giggling, while Steve—accustomed to a lifetime of disagreeing with his body—simply stayed where he was. “The best,” he said. “You’re the best.”

“ _You’re_ the best,” said Bucky, reaching out to pinch Steve’s cheek. Steve laughed and licked his wrist, and Bucky, in mock disgust, wiped it on Steve’s face. 

Steve sat up, then, delighted by how clear his head felt. He was fine. Just fine. Perfectly fine. Possibly a bit nervous. But then he was grabbing Bucky’s shirt-front and kissing him, and even though he was a mess, Bucky pulled him forward, the two of them crawling, kissing, behind the bushes so no one could see them, all the while Bucky taking care with Steve’s easily-bruised body. “Is that okay,” said Steve gasping. “Is that—okay?” He couldn’t think of how long he’d wanted to do that, but he was pretty sure it’d been a long, long time.

“Real good,” said Bucky, scrubbing his face with his hands, touching his beautiful mouth like Steve himself was some kind of gift. 

 

**Present Day**

**New York City**

**[ — — — ]**

 

_Blood wells up on Steve’s lip, hurting the way a body does when you want it to, those irresistible twinges, pressed bruises and picked scabs, blood warm and thick. He leans against the counter as it drips into the sink, his black eye throbbing, and he knows something isn’t right, but he can’t place it. He’s in his and Bucky’s apartment with a fat lip and a swollen eye and a weight behind him, a presence, a shadow. Still, he isn’t afraid—Only fears losing that shield. Hands grip his shoulders, turn him gently round, and nudge him onto the counter. He’s small, pre-serum, and Bucky stands in front of him, pressing into his space, blotting his face with a warm cloth. He swipes a rough, bitten thumb across Steve’s lower lip, wiping away a smear of blood, then gently braces Steve’s neck and marks a silent kiss against his forehead. Steve’s heart races, shadows climbing the walls around them and the room spinning, Bucky nudging his legs apart to stand closer, closer. He—_

 

Steve wakes in the night, briefly unsure of where or when he is until his attention snags on the clock radio’s red glow. Heart thudding from a dream already fading, he grips the sheet and takes a deep breath, whispering his litany. _Joseph, Sarah, Steven_. For a moment he fears ghosts, his mother’s superstitions again, and rain slams against the windowpanes. The wind howls and the sky rumbles—A vicious summer storm. The apartment, too, is cold, which can’t be right, because strict temperature control is his sole extravagance, Steve having sworn never to sleep in a cold apartment again, so help him. Still, he shivers—he sleeps with light blankets and in only his shorts, preferring a warm room—and creeps into the living room to find the balcony door flung open. He shifts immediately into a fighting stance, but the apartment is empty and undisturbed, excepting the puddle of rainwater at the base of the door—blown open, it seems, in the storm. He closes it again and locks it, then heats a cup of milk on the stove, sketching the café regulars until he’s tired enough to return to bed. 

 

**May 1931**

**New York City**

**First Drink**

 

Long, long before Steve fought the Winter Soldier over DC, the worst fight he had ever been in—when he’d really thought, _This is it, I’m dead_ —was not in Nazi Germany, not in occupied Italy or France, not in the Krossberg factory, but in his very first fight in a trash-strewn alley behind the Y, when he was not-quite-but-almost thirteen years old and Colin Martin, a year older, same as Bucky, beat the living daylights out of him. Covering his head with his arms, coughing into the asphalt as Colin’s booted foot struck his ribs, his only thought was, _Please, stop,_ and he didn’t realise until years later—the next time he felt such pain—that in that moment he wished desperately to die.

He didn’t.

But his lungs seized, his breathing so rapid and rattled that even Colin noticed, then panicked—Grabbed Steve and shook him, shouting, “Cool it, Rogers! Calm down, dammit, calm down!” 

He couldn’t, though: He tried, but Colin was shaking him and he couldn’t sit up, his vision was spotty and his fingertips tingled, and Colin dropped him, then bolted. Steve was dizzy with breathing so quickly and so shallow, clutching his chest, trying to sit up and do what Sarah had forced him to memorise, only he _couldn’t_ remember. 

Firm hands took his shoulders once more and he shrunk back, thinking Colin come back to finish him off, but it wasn’t. It was Bucky, ashen-faced himself and trying to haul Steve to his feet. He couldn’t do it. Steve was dead-weight.

“Look at me,” said Bucky, grabbing Steve’s chin.

Steve couldn’t lift his head. 

“Okay, I’m gonna get your ma. Just hang on, okay?” 

Steve couldn’t answer. 

“Okay? Stevie, listen—I’ll be right back, I promise.”

He couldn’t track the time he was alone there, slumped against the wall, only it felt like forever, fingers scrabbling at damp brick, and he wanted to believe that Bucky and Sarah would come for him, but—

Then: “ _STEVEN!_ ”

His name rang through the alley, then Sarah’s sturdy footfalls echoed in his pounding head. She knelt, wiped his bloody face with her sleeve, and said, “ _Mo chuisle_ , I need you to look at me, you’re going to be okay, but you’ve got to look at me. Nod if you understand me, baby.”

Steve was embarrassed to be called _baby_ , but did. 

“Good, that’s good,” she said, and propped him up, rubbing his back, not minding the blood and the dirt. “Remember what we talked about, breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Come on now, Steven.”

_I would if I could_ , Steve thought, irritated, but then—a shuddering gasp and he managed it, and the relief that flooded his body with his first mostly-normal breath was so strong that he couldn’t help sobbing, even with Bucky there, though he ought to have been embarrassed. 

“It’s alright, _mo chuisle_ ,” said Sarah. “You just get up and we’ll get you home.” Steve couldn’t tell if he was shaking or she was or both. “You too, please, James,” she said, and the three of them limped back to the Rogers’s apartment. As soon as Sarah laid him on the couch, his body belatedly realised that it was out of danger, and he shivered with cold and shock and pain. Sarah sent Bucky to the bedroom for a blanket, then brewed a pot of coffee on the stove. “Don’t know when I’ll be able to get some more,” she said, when she poured three cups, “but drink it all, Steven, it’ll open up your lungs.”

“If Steve needs it—” Bucky began, but Sarah waved him off, saying there was enough to go around.

With weak hands, Steve took a sip, twisting his mouth at its bitterness. 

“ _All_ of it,” said Sarah, warningly. But then she disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a dark bottle. “I trust,” she said, tipping a generous amount—or at least, what looked like a generous amount to Steve, who watched with eyes as wide as Bucky’s—into each cup, “that you boys won’t turn me over to the revenuers, nor fall prey to The Drink?” She raised an eyebrow, questioning. 

“No, ma’am,” said Bucky, reverently. “But—”

“It’s kosher, James, dear,” said Sarah. “Your mam gave it to me.”

Steve didn’t think the coffee tasted so much better with Sarah’s addition, but after half a cup he thought it might be _alright_ , and it was worth it anyway—Worth it for the way Sarah treated him like a grown man, even as she bandaged his elbows, taped his nose, and checked his ribs for breaks, not to mention that Bucky looked at her like she was the biggest bigshot of them all.

Sarah insisted that Steve tell her who had beat him up, said they ought to be up before the law, but he insisted he didn’t know them. And what he _did_ know—that he wouldn’t change his story for _anything_ and that both Sarah and Bucky must _never_ know that Steve had thrown the first punch, nor what Colin had said to make him—he kept to himself. Sarah _tsked_ , then made him sit still while she said a rosary, and aside from that, aside from how scared she had looked and his eye swelling to baseball-size and his chest _aching_ , it was actually kind of a great day, drinking _actual booze_ with her and his best friend. 

 

A few weeks later, when Steve was mostly back to normal, Sarah woke him—and Bucky, who had spent the night with Winnie’s special permission, since it had meant he would miss Shabbat at home—early on Saturday morning, harangued them into getting dressed while it was still dark, fed them porridge as they nodded over the table, then harried them out the door and onto the train. He didn’t know where she was taking them.

The day was crisp, but not too cold—nothing to make Steve shiver in his thin coat nor trouble his lungs—and the sun shone brightly on the three of them, he and Bucky in a small train behind Sarah’s charging form, and when she revealed the surprise—when the surprise revealed itself, it was the _biggest building in the world_ , after all—Steve couldn’t believe he hadn’t figured it out. It was all he and Bucky had talked about for weeks, something that incredible and practically on their doorstep. 

They goggled at the bottom of the Empire State Building until Sarah pressed coins into Steve’s hands and sent them alone to the observation deck, and afterward, bought them lunch at to a nearby diner.

 

When he was older, though not so much so, Steve realised that she and the Barneses must have joined forces to give them such a treat—It was 1931 and though neither he nor Bucky knew it at the time, the country was going to shit. But since Sarah never wasted a cent in her life, as an adult, Steve could only assume that she thought it worthwhile to splash out on two oblivious boys, himself still limping and his nose permanently crooked. For his part, Bucky glowed for a month and didn’t shut up about it for the rest of the winter, until the story took on the shape of a legend, something they could hardly believe they had done.

 

**Present Day**

**New York City**

**[ — — — ]**

 

Shrillness pierces Steve’s sleep and he’s out of bed, fumbling for his shield with his mind swamped by raid-siren memories, before he’s fully opened his eyes. He stands, heart racing, and realises that the sound is his buzzer, that he’s wearing only his shorts, and that it’s 2015, he can relax. Breathing deeply, he lays his shield against the wall, takes a moment to stumble into a pair of sweatpants, then picks up the handset.

“It’s Tony. Let me up.”

He does, quickly mopping up the rainwater puddle still on the living room floor from the night before, and soon Tony stands in his doorway, arms folded across his chest, wearing jeans and a grungy SI hoodie with the sleeves bunched in his fists. Steve checks his phone, left next to his keys on the hall table the night before, and grimaces: nearly one o’clock. He really did only just wake up, but he can’t blame Tony for being annoyed that he had missed their lunch rendezvous. 

“Whatever, Rogers,” says Tony. “I don’t care, we need to talk.”

Steve is still sleep-dazed, but he’s been a soldier for a long time and something about Tony is— _Off_. He can’ t place it, but his body tenses all of its own accord. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Nothing’ s happened,” says Tony. “Yet.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” says Steve, ushering him in. “Give it to me straight.”

Tony steps inside and with a burst of adrenaline, Steve realises what’s wrong: Tony looks up to Steve—maybe figuratively, but definitely literally, being a good four inches shorter—but while on the sidewalk yesterday, Tony had hugged him and spoken into his shoulder, today they’re stand nearly face-to-face.

“What would I have to do,” says Tony-Not-Tony, pinning him with an empty-eyed glare, “before you cut me off?”

“What do you mean?” Steve stalls, and poorly. “I just woke up. I’m sorry about lunch. You want some coffee?”

“How far could I go, before it was too far?”

“Who are you?”

“Answer the question.”

“Whatever you want,” says Steve, inwardly kicking himself for leaving his shield in the bedroom, “you don’t have to hurt anyone.”

“‘Don’t have to hurt anyone,’” Tony-Not-Tony mimics, then barks a laugh. “Fuck off—How else would anything get done?” With his left hand still scrunched in his sleeve, he lifts his right, then peels away a SHIELD facial net, dropping the sparking tech to the floor. 

In his mind, in his heart, Steve is no longer in his apartment in the twenty-first century. He is seventy-six years and a serum infusion away, asthmatically breathless, gasping and waiting—Waiting, as he always has and always will, for Bucky. For the man who stands before him, now, wearing Tony Stark’s clothes, the body of a killer, and the face of a ghost. “I would never,” he says, his throat dry and voice rough, “turn you away.”

“I don’t need your guilt,” says Bucky, still with eyes winter-cold. “I have enough of my own.” He is pulling a gun from his pocket, Steve is saying, “No, Bucky, don’t,” even knowing Bucky cannot miss. Bucky is saying, “I have to break it, don’t worry, _stop_ , it’s okay,” but he is lifting the gun, lifting it to his own temple, finger on the trigger, and—

 

**March 1930**

**New York City**

**Bar Mitzvah**

 

Two days after Bucky’s bar mitzvah, Steve found George Barnes pacing the apartment’s front room, with Winnie, her mother, and Sarah barricaded in the bedroom and Bucky by the front door, wearing his good suit but otherwise the picture of misery. Steve’s heart sank. He feared the worst—That something happened to the baby, or even more intolerable (if he was honest, he had to admit it would be) to Winnie. 

“What is it?” He sank to the floor beside Bucky, bracing himself.

Bucky bit his lip. “I don’t know. They won’t say. But—It’s bad, I think. If your ma’s there.”

Steve took a deep breath. “It’ll be okay.”

“What if it’s _not_?” Bucky scratched his left wrist. “I want to go—” He looked over his shoulder, then dropped his voice. “I want to go to—the temple. To pray, but—” He quieted even further and Steve had to strain to hear, turning his deaf ear away and watching Bucky’s lips intently. “Dad doesn’t want me to. Says I should stay here with her.” He had a look of fierce determination on his face and Steve realised how Bucky felt up against his own stubbornness. “But it’s my responsibility,” said Bucky. “As a man.” 

His words were tentative. He feared contradiction and Steve felt momentous: Bucky needed someone to tell him he was right. “You should,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”

Bucky jerked his head up. “What? Really?’

Steve crawled forward to peer into the front room. George stood by the window with his back to them. Sarah had once made the mistake of telling him that it was better to beg forgiveness than ask permission, and both had known then and there that she would rue the day she told him _that_. He took another deep breath. “Yes. C’mon.” He grabbed Bucky’s hand, then pulled him up and out the door, moving as fast as he could without falling down breathless, ignoring the sting in his chest for Bucky’s sake.

Both of them sent up their prayers for Winnie, though Steve waited on the steps outside, then returned to the apartment to find her fast asleep and George too entranced by the newly-minted Rebecca Barnes to be too particularly angry.

 

**Present Day**

**New York City**

**[ — — — ]**

 

—Nothing happens.

 

Or, two things happen: 

 

For one, the gun clatters to the ground, unfired, and for a moment, Bucky’s face is so _joyful_ that Steve doesn’t know what to think, has no time to think before, for two, Bucky follows it to the floor, sunk to his knees, clutching his temples and screaming—Not with rage or frustration, but in agony, and he doesn’t stop until his body is limp, and Steve, his stomach a cold whirlpool, falls too, slumping to the floor with his back against the wall. 

He turns his head to the side and retches, then wipes his mouth and crawls forward. Bucky’s unconscious, his face still twisted with pain, but he’s breathing though his body is bruised and thin. His right hand is calloused and dirty, his left chipped and scratched.

Steve is outside his body. He is a car that someone else is driving. He runs his hands over Bucky’s body, checking for wounds, for broken bones, for a pulse, for anything that could explain this. “Bucky,” he says. Then, louder, “James.” No response. He grabs Bucky’s shoulders and shakes him, hard, and says, “Bucky, sugar, _please_.” With his head pressed to Bucky’s chest, he hears a steady heartbeat; his breathing, too, is regular and strong, and excepting his left arm, he is warm but not too warm. He simply won’t wake up. 

With a strength, then, that Steve has to struggle for—though he has not struggled over the physical in so, so long—he lifts Bucky from the floor (he remembers the alley, and the alley again, and each sniper’s shot, the Potomac in his lungs, every time that Bucky saved him) and carries him to the bedroom. 

He doesn’t know what to do.

He calls ‘Tasha.  

 

**September 1918**

**New York City**

**Birth**

 

Sarah Rogers and Winnie Barnes met at the corner grocers two blocks down from the Barnes’s apartment building in September 1918, when Steve was a squalling two months old, squawking from his mother’s hip, and Bucky a charming seventeen, clinging to his mother’s leg. 

“Guess we have a thing for presidents, you and me,” said Winnie, once introductions were done, eying the fierce young woman in front of her. She patted James on the head and frowned at the bare shelves. Already everyone called him Bucky, except her and Bela, but that was what Winnie loved about hermother: She was a stickler. She still called her _Bina_ , after all, when Winnie herself had long since accepted the Americanisation of her name, though she insisted on _Bina_ for her own namesake daughter. Nothing was quite like the name your parents gave you.

Sarah, whose husband had been dead in the ground of another country for six months—though she’d only known for three—pushed loose hair from her forehead and hummed noncommittally. She didn’t know quite how she was still standing, only that she had to.

Winnie could see it in her, that exhaustion, and knew what the war had taken. Her George had gone to the same war—He’d left mildly protestant, but been invalided out both scarred and profoundly atheistic, declaring to Winnie that no child of theirs would be raised in any kind of religion, so help him, and if she didn’t want to marry that, soulmates or no, that was fine, but she’d better say so. Winnie, who loved him, said that was all well and good, and he was welcome to picket the church all he wanted, but if he thought her babies weren’t being raised like she had, like her family had for generations, he had another thing coming. He said he supposed that was alright and she had leapt on him, thrown her arms around his neck, holding on, and said, “You great fool, everything’s going to be alright.” There in the shop, looking at Sarah, she said, “Thought to be honest, I don’t much care for _that_ president. I was _certain_ I’d have a daughter and wanted to name her Harriet—After Harriet Lane?” 

Sarah nodded, though she wasn’t sure of the name.

“But instead,” said Winifred, “I had _this_ little man, so James Buchanan it was.” Bucky swung out a small hand and yanked his mother’s skirt.“He’ll be the death of me,” she said, apparently delighted by the prospect.

Sarah determined then and there that by the time Steve was walking on his own—and he _would_ be strong—she herself would be as strong as Winnie, and as happy, and she would not feel this churning, bloody sorrow in her belly.

Their paths crossed by chance—Sarah was new to the neighbourhood and Irish-Catholic, while Winnie was the first of her family born in America, Jewish (though her soulmate was a _goy_ , imagine!), and in her whole life has not lived more than ten blocks from the room where she was born—but they took a shine to each other, Winnie invited Sarah round, and the rest was history.

 

Growing up, Steve learned this story by heart. It was one of his favourites, because it was his and Bucky’s story, too.

 


	2. We're Doing Everything Backward

**Three Months Later**

**New York City**

**[ — — — ]**

 

_Sarah stands at the end of his bed. Lifts her hand in a wave, a benediction, and says, “I am so proud of you,_ mo chuisle. _Look out for each other.”_

 

Another dream. Steve rubs sleep from his eyes, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and thinks he ought to shave, then shakes his head at his hands. Three months since Bucky’s arrival and so much the same routine—The fingernails he bit to the quick the day before have already refurbished themselves, smooth and round and even. His are not a worker’s hands and never will be again—Thanks to the serum, he looks like he’s never done a day’s work in his life. He rubs his eyes again. No time for dwelling on himself, though, not today: He has promised, today, to help Bucky, who gets restless and fussing in the absence or disruption of a schedule. _C’mon, Rogers, get up_ , he thinks, then at last hauls himself to his feet to head for the kitchen. 

Bucky’s still in the spare room— _His_ room, though not for much longer, if the day’s plans are successful. Steve flicks the kettle on and in a few minutes, as on most days, its whistling draws Bucky out. He’s already dressed—Steve doesn’t know how he sleeps, only that he never appears less than fully dressed in plain, black athletic wear. He wears his hair down and showers in the middle of the night; he doesn’t like to be seen. “Morning,” he says.

“Morning,” says Steve, and passes Bucky a cup of tea.

Bucky looks at the teabox. “Chai,” he says, pronouncing the _h_ and not the _ch_. “Is this a pun?”

“What?” Steve looks up, surprised. “Um. Not an intentional one?”

“Nevermind,” says Bucky. “You never could get it quite right.” He raises his mug. “ _L’chaim_.” 

 

Over the past week, Steve has shown him specs for eight different apartments and that morning, after viewing three, Bucky chooses the shabbiest, a tired and cosy bachelor’s about five blocks from Steve’s place. They sign the papers right there, to take possession the next day, though both use fake identities (Captain America would make an excellent character reference, of course, but Steve wants only that they be left alone) and afterward, return to Steve’s, where Bucky disappears into his bedroom. He tires easily. 

At first it had worried Steve, Bucky’s fatigue, because Bucky _shouldn’t_ get tired, not with what was done to make him the Winter Soldier—That was a problem in itself, but different from the one that seemed live in the next room. Then he had realised: He can’t believe he didn’t sooner, that _of course_ it’s _pain_ that exhausts Bucky, who bears so much without a word or sign that even Steve at his most attentive had failed to see. Once he did, though, consultation with Sam and ‘Tasha brought him a handful of options for physio and medication he left Bucky to pick through on his own volition. The day of the lease-signing, with Bucky disappearing once more to rest, he leaves a note on the refrigerator that says, _I’m at the café, I’ll be back by six. S._ , then forces himself to pop out to say hello to Ashleigh. He’s socialising. He’s fine. 

 

The next day, they move Bucky into his apartment in one trip, then go down the street for groceries, where Bucky eyes the shelves with dismay.

“I feel—sick,” he says, hand on his belly.

Steve steers him out the door, back to his new apartment, and then sits on the floor, sketching, while Bucky pummels a punching bag. “I hate it,” he says. _Punch_. “It’s not the choice, so many choices, not that I can make _one_ —but it has to make me sick, too.” _Punch_. “I remember liking food—Loving it, even.” _Punch_. “So why can’t I eat?” _Punch_. “Don’t answer that.”

“Wasn’t gonna.” Steve is placid. Having been emotionally flattened for so long, both Bucky’s sorrows and his joys can be unfathomably intense, but Steve tries to let him ride it. 

“I know why,” says Bucky. _Punch_. “Because I ate out of a motherfucking tube and motherfucking needle for seventy _motherfucking_ years.”

“You never used to cuss so much,” says Steve, still calm. Same as it used to be—Take Bucky head-on and let him work it out. 

“You don’t—like it?” Bucky stops suddenly, punching bag still swinging, his face shining with sweat and his hair loose around his face. He looks worried

“Doesn’t matter what I like.”

He scowls. “You’re fucking right it doesn’t!”

Steve doesn’t look up. If he can play this _just right…_ “Not a bit,” he says, voice mild, still sketching, “but I actually think it’s pretty fucking hot.”

A heavy, long, shocked silence—Steve holds his breath—and then Bucky laughs, bright and clear.

 

Steve cooks a simple soup for dinner, served with salted soda crackers, which he eats whole and Bucky crumbles into his bowl.

“Soda bread,” says Bucky. “Your ma.”

Steve says, “Yup.”

“You drew me something, a gift.” Bucky dips his spoon. “Could you draw it again?”

“Sure.”

 

***

 

“Rogers? Is this you? What’s with the heavy breathing?” When Steve had called her as he crouched over Bucky’s unconscious body, ‘Tasha’s tone had been joking, but when he couldn’t shape his mouth around a reply, the tang of vomit still on his tongue and Bucky prone before him, she had shifted to audible worry. “Steve? Steve, talk to me.”

“He,” said Steve. “Bucky. I.” His fingers tingled; he looked down to find he had clenched his fist tightly enough to leave marks. 

“ _Are you secure?”_

He managed a yes.

“Where are you?”

“Home.”

“Barnes is with you?”

“Yes.”

“Is he alive?’

“Yes. I don’t know. I. He’s unconscious.”

“What happened?’

“He tried to—” _Oh G-d, he tried to shoot himself._

“Did he try to hurt himself?”

Steve nods.

“Steve?”

“Um. Yes.”

“Alright, Steve, I need you to listen. Are you listening?”

Steve nods again.

“ _Steve?_ ”

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“It’s a trigger, okay? Knocks him out if he tries to hurt himself. It’s—Nevermind how I know—He’ll be out probably forty-eight hours. Now, listen: This is good, okay? We have a window.”

“Window,” said Steve.

“I’m sending Clint to you,” said ‘Tasha. “No buts. I’m—” In the background, honking and shouting. “I’m on my way to the airport now, I’m in the States, so I can get into JFK tonight, as soon as I can. Are you hurt?”

Steve _ached_.

“Steve, status. Are you injured?”

“Um. No.”

“Okay, good—” More honking, more shouting, a bit of furious Russian. “Clint’s on his way to yours from Bed-Stuy right now.Don’t move, okay?”

“I’m not a kid,” he said, his voice slow and distant in his own ears. Warmth dripped over his lip and he raised his hand—Blood. His first nosebleed since before the serum.

“Stay on the phone with me,” she said, “until Clint gets there.”

 

***

 

The day after Bucky’s move, Steve doesn’t see him. He doesn’t like it, but he knows it’s sensible, the right thing to do—To give Bucky his space and take his own. 

The day after that, though, Bucky telephones him. “Shabbat,” he says.

Steve blinks, then gets with the program. “Yes, it is,” he says. “What would you like to do?”

“I don’t know,” says Bucky. “Should I—I don’t—”

“You don’t have to know,” says Steve. “Just—Tell me if I can help you.”

“You helped me. Before.” Bucky sucks his teeth. “You—came with me. And my ma, she was—proud.”

Steve nods, then rolls his eyes at himself— _Telephone, Rogers—_ then says, “I did, she was.”

“Thank you,” says Bucky, and hangs up.

 

In the afternoon, Tony comes round, asking how the move went. “I’m getting a bit jealous,” he says, like a joke, though Steve can tell it isn’t, not really. “We haven’t hung out in ages.” 

“Tony—”

Tony doesn’t let him finish. “Okay, look, here’s the thing, Old Man Winter’s not safe. For you, I mean.”

Steve pulls him into the apartment. “You promised your discretion,” he says. “We’re keeping him _safe_ , Tony. It’s been three months and there is no sign that he has any intention—”

Tony holds up his hands in surrender. “I don’t break promises,” he says. “It’s bad business practice.” He makes a face. “But then again, so is falling ass-over-teakettle in love with Murder-for-Hire.”

“Don’t call him that,” says Steve, rounding on him. “And that is not—I wouldn’t—I haven’t—” His mouth fails him again.

“Look, I’m sorry,” says Tony, rubbing his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m the delegate for this. Should have sent Widow or Wilson.”

Steve scoffs. “You’re telling me ‘Tasha and Sam agree with _you_?”

Tony flushes. “Not in so many words, but on one thing, yeah, they do: You were doing really well, Steve. Getting out, making friends, throwing parties. Now we haven’t seen you in weeks and—”

“ _You_ haven’t seen me,” says Steve. “I had lunch with ‘Tasha last week, me and her. I Skype with Sam on Thursdays, have for months. Same routine as always at the café down by the Tower, not that you ever swing down to lunch with the plebs.” To his surprise and a sudden stab of horrified guilt, Tony looks hurt. “No, I’m sorry—I—”

“Message received,” says Tony. He reaches for the doorknob. “Loud and clear.”

“Wait,” says Steve, knocking his hand away. “I understand if you don’t want to see him, really, I do.” He swallows. “I swear, I understand, but it doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you.”

“I don’t trust him,” Tony snaps. 

“I do.”

“There’s the dilemma. ”

“I think it’s pretty clear-c—”

“Welp, message delivered: We’re worried about you, be careful, get some sun. See you in the funny papers.” The door bangs shut behind Tony and Steve says, “ _Fuck_ ,” then pulls out his phone to call Pepper, even though he knows he shouldn’t ask her intercede for him. 

 

***

 

Clint arrived within an hour of Steve’s call to ‘Tasha, staggering under the weight of at least a half-dozen large pizza boxes. “I wasn’t sure what kind you like,” he said, “so I bought a bunch.”

Still dazed, Steve held out his phone. “‘Tasha wants to talk to you.” That done, he returned to Bucky’s side, and few minutes later, looked up to find Clint tapping at the door. 

“With your permission,” he said, “I want to tell—”

“No,” said Steve.

“—The Avengers,” Clint finished. “Only Avengers.”

“No,” said Steve again.

“Look at me,” said Clint.

Steve looked up.

“I don’t lie to my friends,” he said. “We won’t turn him over, not to anyone. We won’t tell anyone else. We won’t hurt him—Unless he’s a risk, a clear and present danger, to someone else, including you.”

Steve rubbed his eyes. No matter how he sliced it, he couldn’t get by on his own. “Okay.”

Clint carries the pizzas into the living room. “What is this? _Tron_?”

Steve starts. “What?”

 

Clint gave Bucky a SHIELD medical once-over, explaining in more detail what ‘Tasha had said on the telephone. “It’s a kind of—programming,” he said. “So that if _he_ tried to hurt himself, self-harm—It would cause knock-out pain, but pain that wouldn't hurt him, long-term. Keep him out until he was. Um. Retrieved.”

_Retrieved_. Like a package at the post office.

Clint frowns. “Of course, that’s only if you’re a bastard with a very flexible definition of ‘long-term harm.’ But at least, well—You have two days, now, to figure out what to do.” He adds softly, “It helped me—That is, it helped ‘Tasha.”

“I know what I’m going to do,” said Steve, confused at to why it wasn’t _obvious_. “Take care of him.”

 

While Bucky slept and they waited for ‘Tasha, Clint taught him bits of ASL that Steve matched in what Gaelic he remembered.

 

***

 

Bucky says he doesn’t remember where he was, between the wreckage in the Potomac and turning up at Steve’s door. Says there are shadows in his memory, doors he can’t open. ‘Tasha says this is bullshit, no one loses six months that neatly, but Steve counters that there has never been anyone like Bucky—How could they know for sure? 

He himself lost seventy years, after all, and that was without external tampering, the painful wipes that Bucky endured so often that the first time a doctor—one vetted by ‘Tasha, Pepper, and Steve himself—approached him with electrodes for an EEG, his eyes blanked and his body went rigid as he sat back in the chair and opened his mouth. 

_For a mouth guard_ , Steve realised, standing dumbfounded back from the chair.

Bucky expects pain, not for a reason but as a matter of course, and Steve doesn’t know how to fix it. David, his therapist—if he’s honest, Steve has to admit that it’s helping—says he can’t, that he must realise he can’t, but it doesn’t stop him wanting—Wishing there was something he could do. But there is no clear path: He can’t commandeer an airplane and parachute into Austria, nor steal back his old uniform and offer up the memory of his body. He can only wait, and be there when Bucky wants him and gone when he doesn’t. This, at least, he can do, because it is a joy—a vibrant, living joy—simply to be near him again. If he says he doesn’t remember, Steve is content to let it ride.

 

To celebrate Bucky’s new apartment, he brings over one night a loaf of bread, a jar of salt, and a bottle of wine—A traditional gift.

Bucky’s laugh—harsh, but bright—justifies the gamble. “Fuck, but you were always sentimental, Rogers,” he says, then claps a hand over his mouth, shocked at the memory’s fluidity. Steve doesn’t push, only passes him a slice of bread and a jar of strawberry jam. They eat with their hands and Bucky licks the knife when they’re done. 

Steve moves to stand, but Bucky puts a hand out to stop him. To hold him.

“After the helicarrier,” he says. “I was looking.”

“Looking for what?”

“James Barnes,” says Bucky. “The Winter Soldier. Both of them. Me.” He squeezes Steve’s hand. He likes to be touched, but like a cat, reaches his limit suddenly and without prior warning.

Steve likes to be touched, too, and hasn’t been for a long time; he misses it. 

“I was in DC, that exhibit. Then I went back, followed his trail, all the places he’d been—That _I’d_ been.” 

“I looked for you, after,” says Steve. “But you know that, I suppose.”

“I wasn’t ready.” He shivers. “I’m sorry. I tried to freeze the trail, so you’d stop looking. Should’ve known better.”

“What changed?”

“I couldn’t come back to you with nothing,” says Bucky. “I knew you, but I didn’t—Only that I _used_ to.” He takes a deep breath.

“You don’t have to—”

“Shut up.”

Steve does.

“I followed myself back. I had to learn myself. I don’t want to tell you. It’s true I don’t remember all of it, but the Widow was right, it’s not all gone—”

Steve winces. “You don’t have to say.”

“You want me to.”

“Only if it’d do good.”

“It wouldn’t.”

“Then don’t”

“It’s only— I couldn’t wait anymore.”

“Wait for what?”

“I was selfish,” says Bucky. “I wanted to see you. To—see if—”

“It’s not selfish to want,” says Steve, hearing his friends’ advice to _him_ coming out of his own mouth. “You never have to be sorry.” He mentally kicks himself for interrupting. He wants to hear the rest of Bucky’s thought. _To see if_ —What?

“You’re just saying that,” says Bucky.

“What could I ask you to apologise for, really?” 

“Hurting you,” says Bucky, pulling his hand back. “Almost killing you. Not finding you sooner. Not realising sooner. Not getting away.” He’s looking down, curling and uncurling his right hand.

“It was impossible,” says Steve. “Fuck them all, it was impossible. And _I_ should be sorry—I should have jumped after you, looked for you, got you out. Kept you from falling at all.” _I'm sorry for hurting you so badly._

Bucky frowns with concentration. “I left them once. It was—I don’t know when, but it was New York. The cars were huge. But I didn’t have a plan. I wandered. Until they caught up with me.” He chokes a bit. “Maybe I—wanted them to catch me.”

“They will never catch you again,” says Steve, as firm as he can manage.

“You are so—” Bucky chews his lip, fumbling for words. “ _Earnest_.” He laughs when a blush creeps across Steve’s cheeks.

 

***

 

‘Tasha arrived at eight o’clock that evening. She swept into the apartment, dropped her overnight bag to the floor, briskly kissed Steve’s cheek, and squeezed Clint’s hand, lifted to her as she walked by.

“Short version,” said Clint. “Steve’s agreed to tell the Avengers, Barnes is still out.” He had already helped Steve pile the computer bits in the spare room, so at least the living room was clear.

“Tell them on condition,” said Steve, jogged out of lethargy. “I won’t allow him to be taken, not by any agency, not by anyone.”

“Understood,” said ’Tasha.

“Wait, really?”

“Yes.”She tugged off her gloves, then dropped them on top of her bag. “But I also have conditions.”

“It’s _my_ apartment—You can’t have conditions.”

“You’re _my_ friend,” says ’Tasha. “If he tries to hurt you, or anyone else—”

“He won’t—”

She growled, a bit. “How could you know that? Tell me, Steve, _how_? Show me the evidence and I’ll believe you.”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about: You come at him with the assumption—”

“Gee, I wonder why—He’s killed a fuck of a lot of people.”

“ _Hydra_ killed a fuck of a lot of people.”

“Alright,” said Clint. “Everybody be cool.”

Both Steve and ‘Tasha swivelled and stared. Clint shoved a leftover slice of pizza into his mouth and said over the mouthful, “Mom’n’Dad, quit shoutin’—You’ll wake the baby.” He tilted his head in Bucky's direction and swallowed. “‘Tasha, sit down. Cap and I already talked about mitigating the risks here, ‘kay?”

“Mitigating?” ‘Tasha lifted an eyebrow. “Look at you with the big words.”

Clint stuck out his tongue.

‘Tasha fell onto the couch beside Steve and put her arm around him. “You know we want to help. Trust us.”

Steve scrubbed his face. “I do. Thank you for coming. And you too, Barton.” Clint saluted and Steve squared his shoulders. “Alright. What are your conditions?

“If he hurts you or anyone else, we stop him,” said ‘Tasha. “Also I think you need an emergency phone tree. For now, that’s all—But I know these are _big_ things. I need you on board.” She took a deep breath, then clapped her hands together. “And that’s quite enough fucking around. Time to call in the cavalry.”

“Time,” said Clint, cracking his back, “to eat some food and drink our feelings.”

“You ate two pizzas,” said Steve, incredulous. Then, before things went any further, he said, “‘Tasha? Wait—Before you call them. There’s something I need to tell you—And the others, when they come. About Bucky.” He closed his eyes. Opened them again. “About Bucky and—Me.” 

 

Tony and Pepper arrived with armloads of groceries, and it wasn’t until Steve saw him that he remembered their missed lunch. _Talk him to later_ , Steve thought. _Don’t forget._ All he’d sent earlier was a short cop-out text and with the bedroom door open, he can’t help—can’t resist—hearing a heated, under-breath conversation between the two of them, Pepper hissing, “Tony, I know, I _know_ , but not _now_.” Steve’s phone buzzed—Sam was about drive up from DC—while Bruce and Betty fumbled a second futon up the stairs. 

“I don’t need a third bed,” said Steve. “What are you doing?”

“You don’t want him to leave the apartment?” ‘Tasha folded her arms.

Steve shook his head. “Not unless _he_ wants to.”

“Then for your sake and for the neighbours, we’re going to need to make the apartment secure and I’m not sleeping on the couch.”

 

Working silently, Tony installed sensors, locks, and touchpads throughout the apartment, plus a Jarvis-link. He was silent, too, while Steve told the others about Bucky, not revealing what he already knew. 

“With an off-switch controlled by you,” said Pepper, leaning into the bedroom where Steve sat at Bucky’s side. “No Jarvis if you don’t want him, Steve, and no cameras or recording—Scout’s honour.” She brushed her fingers through her hair, her face tight with worry. “This is the Tony Stark Preferred Problem Solving Method #2: Drown your problems in money and hope everyone involved is so blinded by Benjamins that no one will make you talk about it.”

Steve looked up from his chair. Since arriving, Tony had managed to avoid him. “What’s Method #1?” 

“Drown your problems in alcohol,” said Pepper. “So forgive me, but I’m glad we skipped right to gratuitous spending.”

 

Still in Steve’s bed, Bucky wore the sweatpants he arrived in, though ‘Tasha had tugged him out of the hoodie, leaving him in only a plain tee, his arms bared and a heart monitor clamped to his finger. His face was still lined with pain, a furrow in his brow, tightness in the corners of his eyes, a crooked nose though he had never broken it as long as Steve had known him, and sitting there, Steve wanted to stroke his cheek, let him know in however small a way that someone was taking care of him—Taking care _with_ him. Something not done for decades, he was pretty damn sure. 

He didn’t, though. No matter the storm inside him, Bucky’s trust had been violated enough; he refused to add to it. “You’re safe,” he whispered. “If you believe nothing else, know that you’re safe here. You’re _safe_.” But how could Bucky have believed him? How could he have believed anyone?

‘Tasha rapped at the door. “It’s two a.m., Rogers.” 

“I don’t get that tired.”

“Clint is conked out on that futon, Bruce and Betty went home, and Tony stalked off to blow shit up.” She sighed. “Pepper’s making sure the category of stuff-he-blows-up doesn’t include himself. And you need to go to bed.”

“Poor Pepper,” said Steve. He sucked his teeth. “What’s wrong with Tony?”

“Gee, I couldn’t say,” said ‘Tasha with stinging sarcasm. “Maybe the genetically-engineered super-assassin who killed his parents managed to successfully impersonate him and threaten one of his best friends.”

“I’m not one of Tony’s best friends,” Steve said, automatically, because he was certain Tony was only just getting used to having him around—They treated each other like walking scrapbooks half the time: Steve had memories of Howard that Tony had never seen, while Tony did the same for Peg. Tony liked having him _around_ maybe, but that wasn’t the same as friendship… Surely Steve didn’t mean that much to him? 

‘Tasha pinches the bridge of her nose. “ _All_ that, and _that_ is your takeaway?”

“And Bucky didn’t threaten me,” said Steve, obstinate. “He didn’t lay a hand on—”

“Go. To. Bed.”

“But—”

She holds out a tablet. “Tony wired this for you—It’s a modified baby monitor, of all things, but it’ll let you know if anything changes.”

Steve rubs his face. “I’m sorry I’m being an asshole.”

“I take special note of the present tense.”

“Wherever he is concerned,” said Steve, because he’s always honest, “I will continue to be, most likely.” In his head, he amended, _Definitely_ , then yawned, unable to suppress it no matter how he tried. “‘Tasha,” he said, “what are we going to do? What am _I_ going to do?” He remembered Peg on the dock four years before for him, decades for everyone else. _We’re going to make this right.”_

“You’re going to get some shut-eye,” said ‘Tasha. “Don’t make me say it again.”

Reluctantly, Steve took himself to bed, though he let the tablet glow on the pillow beside him.

 

***

 

After much hemming and hawing, Steve takes Bucky to the café for breakfast. Despite the day’s warmth, Bucky wears a long-sleeved shirt and keeps his hand in his lap or bunched in his sleeve. He rolls his left shoulder and while it’s clear that the pain is less than it was, it’s just as clear that it’s still substantial.

He had worried Bucky wouldn’t like the bustle, then thought that Bucky was well experienced in dealing with crowds, then thought that maybe he’d hate it any need to fall back on that Hydra training, then that—maybe?—Bucky would instead be pleased with something he could do well. He’d gotten himself into such a lather that Bucky had taken him aside after an afternoon at the gym (Steve) and physio (him, after choosing another of ‘Tasha’s under-the-table, hyper-discrete connections) and said, “Whatever you’re fussing on, spit it out.”

Steve had.

“So what? You’re asking me on a date?”

“Um,” said Steve. Then Bucky had clapped him on the shoulder and gone to wait for him outside before he could say, _Yes_.

 

At the café, he requests his usual from Ashleigh, an order Bucky duplicates, and asks after Rachael. Both women are doing well, Ashleigh having finished a summer course, though when she turns to introduce herself, Bucky smiles and shakes her hand, but does not give a name.

“Your friend, yeah?” he asks, after she moves on to another table.

Steve nods. 

“She’s pretty,” says Bucky, and drinks his coffee. “You meet her here?” He looks out the window, letting the question linger

“Oh, no, um,” says Steve. “I mean, I did, but—it’s not. She—” He scratches his eyebrow. 

Bucky looks up—With hope?

“You remember—look, it’s okay if you don’t, obviously, but do you remember Connie? And Bonnie?”

“Oh,” says Bucky. Then his eyebrows lift. “ _Oh_.”

Steve shoves a large piece of cinnamon bun into his mouth.

“I remember them,” says Bucky. “And jazz. The—car, the hovercar—It was important. The Expo. And—” He narrows his eyes at Steve.

“ _Whud_ ,” says Steve, his mouth full.

“Colin Martin.” He points a finger at Steve, though his left hand remains curled in his lap. 

Steve swallows, painfully. “What about him?” He can’t pretend he doesn’t recognise the name—He’s a terrible liar at the best of times and this is _Bucky_ he’s talking to, plus it’d be cruel to fuck with Bucky’s memory, even over— _Oh shit._ Even over this.

“You fought him. Why?”

“He was. Um. He was an asshole, to a friend of ours, at the movies.”

“ _Marjorie_ ,” says Bucky, with a whooshing breath. “And Jackie.” His eyes are narrowed, now, with concentration. “He died—But wait, no.” He looks back to Steve. “Nuh uh, _before_ that.”

Steve swigs his coffee, though it burns his throat and sets him coughing.

“You never told me,” says Bucky. “Years and years and you never told me, I’m sure of it. Until it was like this joke, ‘cos no matter what, you wouldn’t tell.” He cracks his knuckles and says, like it happened yesterday and he could still take his revenge, “You do remember, right, that he nearly _killed_ you?”

“Trust me, I remember,” says Steve, whose fingertips still sometimes recall scrabbling at brickwork, however he marvels that Bucky remembers, too. “And you saved me. Again.”

“Sar—Your ma saved you. Don’t change the subject.” Bucky reaches across the table to poke him in the chest. “It’s been, what, like eighty fucking years? Surely you can tell me, now?”

“It hardly makes sense anymore,” says Steve.

“My memory may be like Swiss cheese,” says Bucky, “but I don’t recall you getting in too many sensible fights.”

“Hey! That was my first fight _ever_ , I’ll have you know.”

“Was it really?” Bucky rubs his jaw, thoughtful, and Steve smiles back. “I suppose, then—No! Stop. Changing. The subject.” He grins to show he’s still bantering, but Steve also knows he’s not about to let it drop. 

Steve brushes his hand across his forehead. “It’s something—You might not remember—”

“I can take it. Go on.”

Steve heaves a sigh. It’s been a long, long time and soon he won’t have any secrets left, but he lets this one out at last: When he was twelve and Bucky was thirteen, already in junior high, Bucky had set his heart on the Children’s Science Fair, run by the American Institute. First prize was twenty dollars, incredible enough, and also the opportunity to catch the eye of companies and collages, but though Bucky worked for months, he wasn’t allowed to go: At best, their school sent only one student to the city-wide fair, and Bucky wasn’t it. Faced with his best friend’s crushed disappointment, Steve—already foolishly and indomitably plucky—had determined to find out _why_ , and Colin Martin (whose substantially inferior project, in Steve’s humble opinion, _had_ been accepted) had been only too happy to enlighten him: “He’s a _Jew_ , he’s hardly the best we’ve got,” said Colin, the last straw before Steve’s temper nearly got him killed for the first time.

“You got your ribs kicked in because some jackass beat me at a science fair?”

“He _cheated_ ,” says Steve, utterly indignant. By the next year, the Depression rolling on, thousands of teachers across New York City were out of work, including those at Steve and Bucky’s public, itself swamped by students who couldn’t find jobs and so stayed in school, and though Bucky kept trying, learning, thinking, the chance for anything big, for anything beyond the borders of their neighbourhood, for _college_ , never quite showed its face again. As for Colin, he might have stayed away from Steve after that—more or less—but Steve never forgave him. 

“Oh, babe,” says Bucky, and while he doesn’t seem to notice the endearment, Steve does. “Damn, but you can hold a grudge.”

“But it was _rigged_ ,” says Steve, again. “It should have been yours.” He still feels the slight, enraged all the more at everyone, ever, who has robbed Bucky of his potential.

“What?” says Bucky. “The chance to lose at a slightly higher level? Steve, babe—” He realises, then, and puts his hand over his mouth.

“It was a chance,” says Steve, inwardly churning at the second endearment, but trying to play it cool. “It could have changed everything.”

“Yeah, well it didn’t.” Bucky snorts. “But you—You always—You thought it was worth it.” He tilts his head. 

“ _Of course._ ”

Bucky rolls his shoulder. “Well, what ever happened to _him_ , anyway?”

His question is rhetorical, but Steve has an answer and gives it. “Dead,” he says. “In the Pacific, summer of ’43 .” _Before you and I went down, even._

Bucky wrinkled his nose. “Of _course_ you know.”

Ashleigh stops by with the coffee-pot and refills their cups.

“I looked up everyone,” says Steve. “With the Internet, with money, it’s pretty easy. I looked up everyone we used to know, people we met once or twice, names I barely remembered. Everyone.”

“What’d you find?”

“Stories,” says Steve. “Their life stories—Mostly ordinary. Sometimes really sad. It was worse when I couldn’t, when the line just went—”

“Dead?”

“Yeah.”

“The Barneses didn’t,” says Bucky. He plucks a sugar cube from the dish and pops it in his mouth. “Bina went out to California, of all places. I checked.”

“So did I,” says Steve. Bina, named for Winnie, had died a few years before he woke up, out in Sacramento where she’d made her life after the war and where Becca, the youngest, had eventually followed her. 

“She and Becca, they got families out there.” He rolls his left shoulder again. “Becca, right?”

Steve remembers staying nights at Bucky’s when they were kids, the small bedroom with the couch cushions on the floor and the curtain strung up between Bucky’s bed and the girls’. Their giggling in the night. “That’s right.”

“I read about them,” says Bucky. “At first I didn’t want to, because I wouldn’t be able to tell what I remembered and what I read, the difference, but then it didn’t matter anymore. I wanted to know.” 

“I never talked to them,” says Steve. “They’re out there, but with Becca and Bina gone, it seemed like—”

“Another world,” says Bucky. “I know.” He taps his fingertips against the table. “You know it wouldn’t matter what I’d won, what I’d ever win, if he’d killed you, right?”

“Getting my ass kicked was not really part of the plan.”

“It never is! Throwing yourself on a grenade, for instance—Read about that, too. You never think!” Bucky rolls his shoulder. “I loved you.” It isn’t a question. It’s also the first time they’ve acknowledged this _—_ the lifelong, tangled, complex immensity—that was between them.

“We loved each other,” says Steve. “But I let you down.” This, too, is not a question. _I love you_ , Steve doesn’t say. _Then and now, again, still._

“You _left_ me,” says Bucky. “For her.” He shivers. “That’s right? You did, didn't you?  
“I did," says Steve, keeping his head up. “I had to make a choice and I chose.”

“You left me,” says Bucky again. “Any time you were with me, you saved me, but when we were apart—That’s when things went to shit.”

“You were the anchor of my life.”

“I’m not some _thing_.”

Steve rubs his mouth. “You’re right, Bucky, you’re right, I know.”

 

***

 

Bucky was unconscious for forty-eight hours from his collapse at the door, nearly to the minute by Steve’s estimation. He had managed to argue the others out of keeping him in restraints, insisting that with half the Avengers or more in and out, there was hardly anywhere _more_ secure. _Besides_ , he thought, though he kept it to himself, _there’s not much here he couldn’t escape and I’m not letting you move him._ He had wanted to be there the minute Bucky’s vitals shifted, but when his tablet blinked the alert both ‘Tasha and Clint insisted he wait outside, supported by Bruce, who had arrived to relieve them. Steve agreed, if only to conserve his energy for future arguments with higher stakes, but felt the separation like a knife in his chest. Bucky woke alone and sat up, blinking.

He looked side to side in confusion, then straightened his posture and said something cold and sharp in Russian. 

Steve and the others turned to ‘Tasha, but it was Clint who interpreted. “He said he’s waiting for orders.” 

Steve went for the door immediately, but Bruce tugged him back. Had it been anyone but the gentle doctor, he wouldn’t have let it pass.

“Look at him,” said Bruce, pointing to the tablet the four of them had crowded round. “He’s not a blank slate, he’s thinking, give him a chance.”

Bucky brushed his ear, like a fly buzzed there, then slumped. His hair, as long as it had been on the helicarrier, fell in front of his face, and he held out his hands, turning them back and forth, seeming to find something in his right palm. When he spotted the camera, he stared directly into it. “I didn’t want that gun,” he said. “That’s not what I came here for.”

Steve dug his nails into his palms to keep himself from knocking the door down.

“ _Wait_ ,” said Clint.

“For _what_? I have been waiting _years_.”

“I can hear you, you know,” said Bucky. He hadn’t moved from the bed, but scanned the room in cold analysis. He looked at his palm again and his face spasmed with pain. “Sergeant Barnes, James Buchanan. 32557038.” He gasped and slumped again, hands on his knees.

“This is absurd,” said Steve. “All of us sitting out here like it’s a fucking vaudeville sketch.”

‘Tasha held his wrist. 

“Someone told me I was safe,” said Bucky. He curled and uncurled his fists—Steve could make out the soft _whirr_ of his arm’s metal plates—then looked at his right palm once more. “Steve.” He lifted his gaze to the camera. “Steve?”

Steve held his breath.

“I don’t believe you, you need to stop jumping out of airplanes, and I’m sorry, I thought I could do it.”

Even as Steve leapt to his feet, he watched through the tablet as Bucky threw himself forward, dashing his head against the wall. Steve burst into the bedroom as he staggered back, dazed and bleeding from a gash above his eyebrow, steeling himself for another run. He fell to his knees, though, once again pressing his hands to his forehead, and hissed with pain, though he did not fall back into unconsciousness. “I’m not trying to—You have to—Understand.”

Steve took him by the shoulders and said, “Look at me, Buck, it’s okay. You came to get me and I’m here now and—”

“I can’t clear of you,” said Bucky. “I have to get clear, I have to—Break—” He yanked himself free and—so suddenly that Steve could not quite believe it happened, only the angle of Bucky’s wrist was _wrong_ —snapped his wrist, blanching, sweat beaded on his forehead, but otherwise silent.

“I don’t understand what you want,” said Steve, panicking. “You can’t do this, Bu—I mean, listen to me—”

“ _No_ ,” said Bucky through his teeth. “ _You_ listen, you have to understand what I’m trying—”

“I don’t, you’re right, I’m sorry.” Steve got hold of Bucky’s shoulders again, while Bucky himself cradled his broken wrist. “So I need you explain and you can’t do that if you’re in pain, or if you’re unconscious, okay?”

Bucky nodded, teeth bared.

“I’m going to ask my friend Natasha to come in, okay?”

“The Widow,” said Bucky.

“That’s right.” Aiming for the camera and mic, he called, “‘Tasha, bring me a medkit, please,” surprising himself with the calmness in his voice. 

Given specific medical direction— _keep still, hold this under your tongue, describe your vision_ —Bucky was placid and obedient, leaving Steve at first grateful, as he splinted Bucky’s wrist, then horrified. The spike of passion that had thrown against the wall had been subsumed by a deeply ingrained obedience. “Can you tell me,” he said, slowly, steadily, “what you were trying to say before? If you—want, I mean. Do you want some water?”

Bucky accepted the offered plastic cup. “I took that gun,” he said, “but I didn’t plan to. It wasn’t mine.”

“It didn’t fire,” said Steve. “But you did try to fire it.”

“Yes, but—” He grimaced. “You have to believe me—It wasn’t mine, I took it from the guard.”

“The guard?” Steve was taken aback. His building’s super was barely around, much less a _guard_. “What guard?”

“Yours.”

“I don’t—have a guard.”

“You did.” Fear flickered in Bucky’s eyes, like he knew he'd done something wrong and feared punishment. “I mean, you still _do_ , I didn’t kill her, I only took her gun. I didn’t kill her.”

“I believe you,” said Steve, and he did, though he would have said anything to get that panic off Bucky’s face. _Whose gun did Bucky take? Who was watching them?_ “I’m glad that you didn’t want to take it.” _Where was it, now? He’d shoved it out of the way—In the spare bedroom?_ “Why did you?”

“She was in my way. Between me and—you, and I had to see you. She wasn’t supposed to realise—Her boss, Stark, he was in a meeting, she should have been fooled.”

Steve planted his hands on the tops of his thighs to keep them from shaking. _Stark?_

“I have a—lock,” said Bucky. “On me. I want to break it. I don’t want to hurt  myself—I just want to be able to.” 

He tilted his head and Steve could see that Bucky did not expect him to understand. “I jump out of planes,” he said. “You break your bones. We have to stop doing that, okay? We have to—try.”

“I _am_ trying,” said Bucky. “I think it worked.” He bared his wrist. “See?”

 

Clint and ‘Tasha left for Bed-Stuy soon after Sam arrived for the evening. He bustled in the kitchen, making sourdough bread while Steve sat at the end of Bucky’s bed, hemming a pair of pants. He could pay someone to do it, but didn’t want to—Old habits died hard. Bucky sat sturdy and silent. 

Before Steve went to bed, he stood several minutes in front of the bedroom safe where he’d put the gun. At last, he punched in the code, opened the safe, and pulled it out. He already knew what he’d find and he was not mistaken: On the butt, a tiny Stark Industries logo. He exhaled heavily, an exhausted _whoosh_ , and said aloud, though softly, “Fucking hell, Tony, what are you doing?”

 

***

 

While walking between their apartments, Steve trips on a frosty kerb and grabs Bucky’s shoulder for balance. He does this automatically, without thought: A slip on the ice, a hand thrown out for stability. Bucky, though, walking a few steps ahead and seeing Steve only from the corner of his eye, panics,then shifts his weight and flips Steve over his shoulder, throwing him to the ground.

Blinking, flat on his back with the breath knocked out of him, Steve lifts his head to find Bucky across the sidewalk, pressed against the building-side. “Don’t touch me,” he says.

Steve coughs in the chill air, then sits up. “It was an accident.”

“Don’t _touch_ me,” says Bucky, again. He slams his metal fist into the wall, leaving a hole. “You can’t just touch me whenever you want.”

Steve says nothing; there is nothing _to_ say to the fear and fury chewing through Bucky. He tries an apology, but Bucky cuts him off.

“I will not be compelled by you, Rogers.” Bucky edges away, while Steve doesn’t move from the ground, remembering Sam’s words on paranoia yet another lifetime ago. “I don’t care how I was born, what Marks are on me, what you’ve done for me, I will not be forced, I will not be compelled—Not ever again.”

“I know that,” says Steve, showing his empty hands, trying to calm Bucky down. “I know.”

Bucky slams his fist into the wall once more.

“Buck, I’m _fine_ ,” says Steve, aiming to soothe, to take at least one worry from Bucky’s vast supply. He gets to his feet and dusts off his pant-legs. “I tripped, that’s all, I swear. This body still confuses me, sometimes.” This is true—He still sometimes forgets his size and strength. He adds his next words only because Bucky will know if he pulls his punches: “You don’t have to believe me, Bucky, really, you don’t, you get to pick, but I promise, I’m not going to do that to you.”

Bucky works his jaw, then says, “I have to go home,” and disappears around the corner. 

Steve pulls off his hat, runs his hand through his hair, then goes home himself.

Good days, bad days.

 

***

 

Steve returned the gun the day after Bucky woke; he had questions for Tony, questions that he didn’t want answered around Bucky, so leaving him with Clint and Bruce for the morning, he went to the Tower and found Tony upstairs, working.

Steve gingerly laid the gun on the counter.

Tony said “Ah,” and looked at the floor.

“Weren’t going to mention it, were you?”

“You insisted on living in Brooklyn alone, far away from—”

“It’s not ‘far away’—And he could have killed himself.”

“They never watched _you_ , they were keeping an eye on the building, and—”

“He had _no other weapons_ on him, Tony. Just this. The _only_ one he had, he got off her.”

Tony swallowed. Pursed his lips. “He doesn’t need weapons, Capsicle. He _is_ one. And it was DNA-locked to its designated handler, it couldn’t have fired.”

“The only reason we are not having a grudge match downstairs _this minute_ ,” said Steve, “is that out of the goodness of my heart, I’m giving you the opportunity to explain yourself. _Why were you spying on me?_ ” He drew himself up to full height. He knew how intimidating he could be, when he tried, though it had been a trick to learn—women crossing the street to avoid him at night, men stepping out of his path with deference. He didn’t understand it and he didn’t like it, but he wasn’t above using it. Tony drew back, but only a few steps.

“I wasn’t—”

“You _know_ what SHIELD did to me. Why I came back here, why I’m living in Brooklyn and not upstairs, and you still thought you could do this to me?”

“You wouldn’t have said yes, if I asked,” said Tony, weakly.

“ _Exactly_ ,” said Steve, banging his fist on the countertop. 

“You aren’t careful,” Tony snapped. “About him—You’re not careful and you’ve never been.” He pointed to himself. “I read all the bios, remember? Goes AWOL wearing a _costume_ , jumps out of a plane, reneges on ‘Don’t want to kill anyone’ for an all-out vengeance bloodbath, lets him _punch_ _your face in_. You’re not careful about him, so someone has to be—And someone has to be careful about _you_.”

Steve closed his eyes. “You get one pass, Tony. One, because I know you, now, but never, _never_ do that to me again.”

“He—” Tony cut himself off, his fists balled at his sides, his breathing heavy. Steve hadn’t seen him so on the edge since they’d nearly come to blows so soon after first meeting. “He’s not taking anybody else.”

“He _won’t_ ,” said Steve, anger still simmering, even knowing Tony wanted, mostly, never to someone else the way he’d lost his parents. “Trust me. _Please._ ”

Tony wrinkled his nose and didn’t reply.

 

He’d left Sam in the café and after storming out of Stark Tower, finds him chatting congenially with Ashleigh and throws himself into the seat across the table.

“Shit, honey,” says Ashleigh. “Who pissed in your cornflakes this morning?” When Steve doesn’t answer, she says, “Right. Okay. Bad time for jokes. I’ll be back with coffee.” 

Steve slumps down, banging his head on the table. “That stubborn _idiot_.”

“Mmm,” says Sam, a noise that sounded like _I’m not saying anything._ “Irritating, isn’t it?”

“This is _really_ not the time,” says Steve, glaring. 

“Don’t get pissy with me for pointing out the obvious parallels.”

“Bucky pulled me out of the Potomac.”

“He also _put_ you there.”

“If he wanted to kill me, the job was done—He didn’t.” Ashleigh sets down a mug—Not Steve’s usual black coffee, but a latte with a heart drawn in the foam. He looks up to a small wink before she dashes back to the kitchen. “Supersoldiers,” he says. “Nazi computers, men that can fly, and people keep telling me _I_ need to adapt. _Pfft_.”

“Stark was wrong not to tell you,” says Sam. “Especially given your—history with surveillance. It was wrong, Steve—”

“Don’t say ‘but.’”

“ _But_ , we’re all trying to watch your back.”

“I don’t want you all doing things for me I can’t pay back,” says Steve. “Missing work and coming out here and staying with us round the clock—I can’t pay that back.”

“Nobody is asking you to.”

“Not yet.” Steve drinks his latte, pleased at least that it wasn’t sweet, he can’t abide sugary drinks, and remembers kissing Sam on New Year’s Eve.“If our places were switched and it was Riley, what would you do? He’s my best friend, Sam.”

“I’d do _exactly_ what you’re doing. And _you’d_ be doing exactly what _I’m_ doing.” Sam fidgets with his mug. “This is a side of you I’ve never seen.”

Without thinking, Steve says, “Has it occurred to you that you don’t know me very well, really?” He doesn’t mean for it to hurt, but he sees the flicker of surprise in Sam’s eyes and knows that it did, and Tony’s words pop into his head. _You’re not careful about him._ “I mean—”

“You jackass,” says Sam, shaking his head. “I know exactly what you meant.”

“It’s just—Bucky knew me best.”

“And no one else will,” says Sam. “ _Until you let them._ What was all those months together last year, huh? Huh?”

His words freeze Steve, reminding him terribly of Bucky years before. Is this who he is, someone who forgets his friends, their love, their sacrifice? He stares at Sam, breathing hard, and manages to stutter, “He is _my_ responsibility.”

“No,” says Sam, firm and sharp. “He’s not, and as long as you think that, as long as you think his pain and your pain are the same thing, with the same effects and the same solutions, you’re going nowhere fast. Also, I may be a counsellor, but I’m not yours, so you don’t get to do this to me. How are things with David?”

“I am not a _child_ —” After Hydra got their hands on his records, Steve had sworn, _Never again,_ and yet he does like the therapist, no matter how loathe he is to admit it. He can’t seem to stop snapping at Sam. Why can’t he _stop_?

Sam folds his arms and arches an eyebrow.

Steve feels his face twist with irritation and frustration.

“And I know I don’t need to say it, but I—Well, I do.” Sam frowns. “Barnes is in no position to return what you’re feeling. If you even know what you’re feeling.”

“Wow, thanks, enlightening. Thought you didn’t want to headshrink me anymore?” Steve is brittle and cold and can’t seem to help himself. “What do you take me for? You think I’d take advantage of him?” _Rumlow. “_ Didn’t realise wanting to help him and wanting to fuck him went hand-in-hand.”

“You’re covering, talking like that,” says Sam coolly. “All brash and callous—I know that’s not you. Don’t know what you’re covering, nothing necessarily wrong with it, but you are.”

Steve cannot tell how much he loves Bucky, how much he owes Bucky, nor how much he needs Bucky, so he says nothing.

“And you are one of the best men I know,” says Sam. “No matter how we’re snapping at each other.”

Steve deflates. “ _You’re_ not snapping, Sam.” He rubs his face. “It's me, this is all on me. I’m sorry.” He put his hands down and forces himself to look his friend in the eye. “I really am. Thank you for coming with me today, I mean it. And for coming out from DC. For _everything_.

Sam softens and shrugs, smiling as he always does. “You’re forgiven.”

But Steve sees the hurt behind it and he will not take more than he gives, not this time. “Don’t bear so much for me, Sam,” he says. “You don’t deserve that weight.”

Sam blinks, then says casually, “Also, Granny wants you over for supper this weekend, no ifs ands or—”

“You joke, too,” says Steve, wanting to reflect the love Sam gives him. “Like me, I mean—When you’re hurting, you joke and you smile and—You give so much. But I can carry you, too. I’m your friend.”

Sam wets his lips, saying nothing, and Steve watches the rise and fall of his chest. “Thank you,” he says at last. “I—” He curls into himself; for Steve it’s like looking in a mirror. “Sometimes I feel like I’m living for two, like I—Have to. Like it isn’t right to be anything but happy, because Riley—” He sighs. 

“I know it,” says Steve. “I really do.”

“Granny really does want you over,” says Sam. “You know she put Sunday dinner on while the Chitauri torched Manhattan?”

Steve laughs; he can’t help it. “Okay,” he says. “I’m in.”

 

***

 

The next several weeks shaped Steve’s once-again-amended “normal. 

With ‘Tasha’s help, he found a therapist he could tolerate. The man’s contact information had come from ‘Tasha’s personal files and though Steve still hated the risk of it, he trusted her. Pepper, too, had spent a long and weary afternoon walking him through an extensive legal contract, assuring privacy and discretion, and his toleration of the man, David, slowly turned to comfort.

At home, Bucky kept to himself, shoving the furniture against the walls and doing stretches and exercises for hours, or else going out without saying, though he always left a scribbled note. He knew his name and service number, and Steve’s name and face; otherwise, he revealed little. Steve let him guide their conversations or else spoke only of the day-to-day, knowing from personal experience how painful it was to speak of things that had gone. He wondered, though, if Bucky revealed more to his own therapist, a deceptively slight Irish-Russian acquaintance of ’Tasha’s. Viktoriya was brisk, authoritative, and discrete—Plus she didn’t mind house-calls and knew a thing or two about the world that had spat both Bucky and Steve into the 21st-century. Steve stayed nearby when she and Bucky met, just in case, but no matter what emotions raged behind closed doors, he was not physically violent. 

Those were good days. 

On bad days, Bucky sat in a corner facing the wall and spoke to no one. Scratched himself with his metal hand, squeezed bruises into his legs and hips and upper arm, bit his lips until they bled. 

“You said you didn’t want to do that,” said Steve, one afternoon. “Remember?”

“But I can,” said Bucky. “I have to make sure I’m here.

“You can,” said Steve, “but you don’t have to. And you’re right here—Here with me.”

“Did I have a soulmate?” His tone was casual, even with the non-sequitur, like he asked about the weather or the next 6 train, but it struck a chord in Steve—He heard the eager undercurrent of Bucky’s voice. “Did I find them?” His Mark, the words he had always hidden from Steve, was long gone—Replaced by his metal arm. 

“If you did, you never told me,” said Steve.

“That doesn’t sound like me,” said Bucky. “But then, what would I know?”

“You want me to investigate?

“No.”

 

***

 

The next time Steve and Bucky visit the café, Rachael and Ashleigh linger hand-in-hand at the counter over Ashleigh’s break.

A few feet away, at his usual table by the window, Steve takes no particular notice until he see Bucky, his coffee untouched, turned in his chair and staring openly. His mouth hangs open, just slightly. 

Knowing Bucky can hear at least as well as he can, Steve tilts his head and listens to see what the girls might have said to capture Bucky’s attention. He hears nothing, though, but Ashleigh’s low laugh as she leans in to press a soft kiss against Rachael’s lips. Bucky furrows his brow and Steve is about to nudge him and remind him to lay off, when Rachael’s eyes narrow with annoyance.

“Yo, Steve,” she says. “Tell your friend it’s rude to stare.”

Bucky snaps his mouth shut and whips around to face Steve once more, though he looks down at the table. His left hand is hidden in his lap, while his right grips the table. 

Ashleigh turns around, then, looking confused and embarrassed, and Steve doesn’t know what to to say, just opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water.

“I’m sorry,” says Bucky, hurriedly, turning around again. “You looked, you just looked so happy.”

Rachael raises her eyebrows. “That’s not the answer I was expecting,” she says. “I’ll give you that.”

“Still, I’m sorry,” says Bucky. He looks back to Steve. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” says Steve, belatedly recognising the look in Bucky’s eyes as longing. 

“This is Steve’s,” says Ashleigh, tugging Rachael toward Steve and Bucky’s table. “But sorry, I don’t know your name.

“Oh,” says Steve. “Um, this is—”

“Yasha,” says Bucky. “Yasha Misostov.” His smile is winning, but chilling—A strange blend of Bucky’s old cheerful sex appeal and an assassin’s practiced lure. “And again, I apologise for making you uncomfortable.” His voice is smooth and polished, a performance. Not at all Bucky, past or present.

“Do it again and I’ll throw you out,” says Ashleigh, joking-not-joking.

“She will,” says Steve.

“I don’t doubt it,” says Bucky, with that same practiced smile. Then the mask cracks, a bit, and he’s his new, cautious self again. “I’ve been—away—a while. I’m still getting used to—Being back, I suppose.”

“I’ve got to run,” says Rachael. “Steve, nice to see you, and good to meet you, Yasha—Or it will be, if you behave yourself.”

Bucky holds up his right hand in pledge. “Promise.”

“See you tonight,” says Rachael, kissing Ashleigh on the cheek. “Don’t wait for me for dinner, though—I’ll be at the temple.” 

“You practice?” Bucky’s voice is sharp, cracking a bit, but “Yasha” has disappeared and Steve can tell that his friends are startled. Bucky blushes and adds, “Sorry. Again. Sorry. I haven’t been in a long time.”

Rachael, bless her, roots in her purse, then tosses a card on the table. “You’re certainly welcome, if it interests you.”

“Better get back to work,” says Ashleigh. “Bye, guys.”

Bucky’s coffee, no doubt, has gone cold, but he drains the mug, then closes his hand around Rachael’s card. 

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you find out—if she means it? If she really wouldn’t mind.”

“Sure, Buck. I’ll call her tonight.”

“No,” says Bucky, hurriedly. “Not tonight. In a couple days, maybe.”

“Okay,” says Steve, fine with being agreeable but inwardly glowing. “If it works out, you want me to come with you?”

Bucky considers this, but says, “Not that this time. If that’s alright.”

“It’s alright,” says Steve. “Don’t worry.”

“I went earlier,” says Bucky. “In September. For forgiveness. I didn’t tell anyone. I only wanted G-d to know me.” He bites his lip. 

“Your secrets are yours,” says Steve. “You keep as many as you want. I hope it—I hope it did good for you.”

“It did. _He_ did.” Bucky flicks Steve’s knuckles, then retracts and raises his eyebrows, questioning, hesitant—Frightened. 

Steve takes the next logical step, one that comes as easily as breathing. He flicks Bucky’s wrist, his metal wrist. _Kiss_.

 

***

 

Late one morning, nearly three months since Bucky’s reappearance in his life, Steve pulled a pan of ‘Tasha’s _blinchiki_ out of the oven, where she had left them earlier to keep warm.

“ _Blintzes_ ,” said Bucky, seated at the table.

“More or less,” said Steve.

“That smell, my mother, my _bubbe_ , my sisters, working in the kitchen,.” The words fluttered into the kitchen and Bucky looked startled by them, rubbing his mouth.

“Yup,” said Steve. He laid the pan on the table and tossed his tea-towel to the counter. “Barneses didn’t mess around when it came to food. I loved being invited for dinner, let me tell you. I’m sure my mam did too.” Bucky didn’t stir, so he continued, remembering lean years with Sarah. “Your parents were very generous people, and your grandmother, too.”

Bucky stared into his palm, tracing its lines with a metal finger. “Are you angry with me?”

Steve deflected. “Why do you think I would be angry with you?”

“Answer the question: Are you?”

“No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Steve put his hands flat on the table and looked at Bucky, full of honesty. “I was, but it was a long time ago—Four years, for me, and I don’t know how long for you. We were different and you were angry with me, too. Rightly so. I don’t think it would have lasted.” _I hope. I don’t know._

“If I wanted to leave, would you let me?”

“I don’t think I could stop you.”

“Not without killing me,” said Bucky. “Which you won’t do.”

“Which I won’t do.”

“But that doesn’t answer the question.”

“I don’t want you to go, but I wouldn’t stop you. Unless someone was in danger.”

“My handlers would never kill me,” said Bucky.

Steve hated the word. _Handlers_. 

“And nobody else could. I’m too strong.” He didn’t speak with the charming arrogance of Bucky in the thirties and forties, his old insistence that all would come out peaceably and well in the hand, have faith; instead he simply stated facts. “You’re the only who ever came close.”

“It was the same for me,” said Steve. He ate another _blintz_.

“I didn’t want to die,” said Bucky. 

“I believe you.”

“I wanted to break that lock on me—But if something went wrong, I knew you could stop me.” Bucky took a small bite from a roll, chewed carefully, and swallowed. “I’m sorry I did that to you, but I had to know someone could stop me—I came here, disguised like that, because I wanted to see you— _Just_ you, plain and all, how you looked when you were—But it all went sideways. Everything’s always fucked up around you.”

Steve winced.

“That’s—Shit, that’s not what I meant.” Bucky pushed his plate away. “I meant me, I fuck up—around you. _We_ fuck up. I wish—I wish I could say there was a moment, while I was gone, after the river, when I clicked in. When I figured it out. I was waiting for—Orders. Direction.”

Steve doesn’t move, hardly breathes, not wanting to break Bucky’s concentration. 

“I wish I could say, you know, ‘In Prague, I crossed the Charles Bridge at sunrise and then I knew’—something like that. Whatever. But I chased my own tail and when it got more than I could stand, I wanted to go home, except home wasn’t America or New York or Brooklyn—Home was you. Or cryo—I wished I could find cryo again. Not die. Just—sleep. I want to go home.”

“Me too,” said Steve, softly.

“Aren’t you?”

Steve shook his head. “Because I remember the ice, too—I mean, _my_ ice, just a little bit—The colours and the—Cold. Do you—”

“It was like being drunk,” says Bucky, slowly, “but not as fun. It made you forget—Forget to care, forget to—Feel. Anything. It was cold, too.” He took another bite. He ate slowly, carefully.

“You’re not alone. In that.” Steve sat. “When you were gone, when I lost you—I felt like _I_ wanted to die, too. Peg—She saved me from it, from drowning in it.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, the tip of his tongue sticking out.

“Then I woke up in this new time, this new world, and it was the same for me, like you said, wanting to go home. I’d lost everything, but the worst was what I’d already lost—I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead and I—”

Bucky suddenly spasmed, gripping the table hard enough to dent the wood. Pain twisted his face and he slipped from his chair and bent double, palms against the laminate, rocking back and forth and breathing heavily. 

Steve rounded the end of the table, kneeling in front of him, reaching for him, but Bucky curled away from and gasped, “No, get away from me, get away.”

Steve skittered back, hands up in surrender. “Buck, do you know where you are? It’s me, it’s Steve.” But his words only seemed to make it worse: Bucky clutched his metal wrist, then slams it into the floor. “ _Please_ ,” said Steve. “Talk to me, tell me what you need.”

“It’s _you_ ,” said Bucky, lifting his head, gritting his teeth. “

“Yes, it’s me, it’s Steve,” said Steve, still a few feet away.

Bucky groaned with pain. “Don’t you understand? Are you _still_ fucking deaf?” His next words were mumbled, “ _Go, get out of here, not without you_ ,” then he shouted again, “It’s _you_!” He held out his metal arm, wrist up. “Look!”

“I don’t what I’m looking at,” said Steve, desperate.

“Look at it, can’t you see it? It’s _right there_.”

“Oh my G-d,” said Steve, who saw nothing but the scratched metal plates of Bucky’s prosthetic, but in that moment remembered the day, the very minute he found Bucky strapped to Zola’s table. He had looked down into the face of his best friend, his lover, and said the same words he’d spoken a few minutes before: _I thought you were dead._ Bucky had looked up at him in rapt confusion, like he had seen G-d but wasn’t sure if G-d was merciful, before a smile cracked his face and he said, “ _Steve_.” All these years, Steve had chalked it up to trauma, distress, torture—and all of that was true, but there was something else. Something he had missed for so long. “I’m your _soulmate_ ,” he said.

Bucky curled on the floor, rocking, said something in a language Steve didn't recognise and Steve was sick with not understanding, with not meeting Bucky in the middle, with leaving him alone again. 

 

***

 

Of all the things Bucky could enjoy about living in the 21 st -century—healthcare, wireless Internet, electric cars, the discovery of the Higgs-Boson (“Nevermind discovery,” says Bucky, looking up from a science magazine, one he’d picked for its headline on the emerging field of soulmate studies. “Just the _idea_!)—it turns out that what he likes best, as far as amenities go, are DVD players.

“The last I remember of anything like this,” he says, “is Betamax.”

“What’s Betamax?”

“I don’t rightly know,” says Bucky. “But this is better.”

It pleases him, that he can watch a film on demand whenever he wants. Even more so, it _delights_ him to shut one off in the middle with no advance warning or wander away in the third act, then return as the credits roll.

Steve wonders if Bucky likes the lull of sound or the television’s flicker, but it turns out it isn’t light or sound or entertainment. It’s simply the notion. 

“The stories go on without me,” he says one Saturday afternoon, having returned to his living room—where Steve sits at the end of the couch sketching, only half-watching himself—for the last ten minutes of _Bringing Up Baby_. “They don’t need me to be there to go on. They stay while I’m gone.”

Steve thinks on this, considers dependability, and says, “I think I understand, Buck, but I’m not sure.”

“You don’t have to,” says Bucky. “I do.”

Steve shrugs. “Fair enough.”

“What’re you working on?”

“Nothing much,” says Steve, who has been toying several months, even before Bucky’s reappearance, with preparing a portfolio for art school. “Doodling.”

“Your face is too serious for doodling,” says Bucky. He settles into the other end of the couch, clutching a pillow to his chest. “Really, now, what is it?”

Steve takes a deep breath. He closes his book, then flips it open again again to explain while the movie starts over. Bucky shifts closer as Steve talks, and stays close when Steve falls silent, until he’s nodding with fatigue. Not wanting to startle him, Steve doesn’t reach out, only says softly, “You can put your head down. If you want. If you’re tired.”

Bucky blinks, then gingerly shuffles to lay his head in Steve’s lap. He sleeps, fitfully at first, then settles into comfort—Half an echo of his past habits.

 

The next week, after they leave the gym/physio, striding through the brisk November chill, Bucky hums to himself, something Steve hasn’t heard him do since—before. After a moment, he says, “Got a movie suggestion for you, Buck. It’s one was saw together, before. It—I don’t know if it’ll hold up, but—Interested?” Sometimes Bucky wants to explore their past; sometimes he doesn’t. Steve goes with the flow.

“Sure,” says Bucky, still humming. “This weekend?”

 

***

 

Still curled into a ball on the floor, Bucky pressed his forehead against the floor and shivered. “Why didn’t you tell me,” he said. “What we did, why didn’t you tell me?” 

_What we did._ Steve’s skin crawled; Bucky sounded repulsed—By them? By him? By the very idea? ( _fingers curled into his hair and face mashed against his throat_ ) ( _You think that supersoldier magic potion cured you of me?_ ) “I didn’t know if you would believe me,” he said. “I don’t have any proof. I want you here, Buck, and I want to help you, but I don’t want you to think you owe me—” He reached out, saying, “C’mon, let’s get you up and—”

“Don’t touch me,” Bucky said. “I don’t want to be touched, not by you, not by anyone.”

Steve, who had yanked his hand back immediately, blinked back tears and said, “Okay. Alright. I’m sorry. I won’t.”

“I don’t even know if I’m remembering the truth,” said Bucky, not looking up from the floor. Then, “You have to want someone who can touch you.”

Steve remembered Rumlow’s hands on him, the pleasure that was and was not. “Right now,” he said, “I just want to finish breakfast.”

Bucky pushed himself up from the floor and for a moment, looked like might retake his place at the table. But: “I can’t eat,” he said, flatly, and left the room. 

Steve covered the pan with the tea-towel, went to his bedroom, and shut the door, suspecting that Bucky would find it easier to return to the kitchen if he wasn’t there. _It’s good_ , he thought. _I should get some time alone to—process. Right? That’s what David would say._ His mind reeled. He was such a fool, he had never thought, never suspected—And Bucky had suffered. He’d suffered in silence, while Steve carried on, oblivious. 

Unless Bucky was wrong. Unless he misremembered. After all, Steve had never heard of soulmates matching so late after meeting: Your Mark reflected the first words your soulmate spoke to you after the Mark appeared—And he’d known Bucky his whole life.

Unless.

Unless he _hadn’t_.

Unless the Steven Grant Rogers who’d dragged Bucky out of the factory was markedly different from the one who had hugged him goodbye at the Stark Expo. What had the serum _done_ to him? He remembered his twenty-first birthday, the day Bucky’s Mark appeared, and Bucky had skipped work and stayed out all night, trying to prompt Steve into saying it— _I thought you were dead_. He remembered Bucky on the mountainside. _And I’ll lose you, too_.

A thumping sounded at his door and Steve started. “Rogers?” It was Bucky’s voice. “Open up, Rogers.”

“Just come in,” said Steve, exasperated.

He did, then said, without further preamble, “I want to move out.”

“What?”

“I want to move out,” he said again. “I want to be friends again, so I want to move out.”

Steve rubbed his neck. “We’re doing everything backward.”

Bucky hesitated, then said, “Can I?”

“Sugar,” said Steve, the word slipping out, “I can’t stop you. It’s up to you.” He tried to smile. “I’ll pull up some options tonight, okay?”

 

Picking through digital listings, though, it wasn’t property details or apartment layouts that caught Steve’s attention, but Peg’s photographs, twigging his memory—That nagging _something_ about the photograph of Bucky, until he thought, _His wrist!_ Rummaging through the top shelf of his wardrobe, he pulled down the envelope, then emptied it over the bed, rifling for the picture he wanted. _Alright, Rogers_ , he thought. _You can do this._

And it turned out, he could—Twenty-first-century technology had nothing on him. Though the photo was already blurred, not to mention yellowed with age, it was an near-garish close-up of Bucky, and once scanned into the computer, he was able to zoom in on Bucky’s bare wrist enough to make out “thou” and “de”. The rest was illegible, but for Steve, it was enough, and so he snatched the photographs off the printer and marched down the hall to rap at Bucky’s door

“Peg gave me these,” he said, shoving the print-outs into Bucky’s hands. “In the summer, before you came. I didn’t notice before, and they’re not as clear as I wanted, but I think they’ll—help.” 

Bucky flipped through the pages, then gasped.“It’s _true_.”

“I believed you,” said Steve. “But I wanted—”

“ _Thank you_ ,” said Bucky, and grabbed him in a hug.

“You’re welcome,” said Steve, arms held awkwardly at his sides.

“I'm sorry,” said Bucky, releasing him. “Was that—Was that okay? I know what I said before, but—” He bit his lip.

Steve nodded and Bucky pressed against his chest once more. 

 

***

 

Though Steve trusts no one more than Bucky on this earth, even now, he still stumbles over his words. “I—Well, I—” 

 

He has thought about confessing Rumlow more and more since taking Bucky to the café—Since Bucky looked at Ashleigh, then at him, and asked, tone so artificially casual,“You meet her here?” And their other visit, too—That _longing_ in Bucky’s eyes. Rumlow is gone, _gone_ , and Steve doesn’t care about him, doesn’t think about him at all, except when he does—When he remembers, worst of all, the fluttering kind of happiness that came with it, the push, the rush, the adrenaline, risk and Rumlow’s hands on him. The _uncleanness_ he felt. He thinks about it and worries, wondering not only if _he_ could bear it, but if it would hurt Bucky more to keep Rumlow a secret (and risk him finding out, somehow) or to tell him. 

And now Bucky’s looking at him. They’re lying on Bucky’s living room floor after re-watching _Weekend in Havana_ and Steve doesn’t want to spoil this moment, this light happiness, but Bucky’s looking at him, having just said, “I know about, you told me about Peg and all, but after—Did you—pick up—with anyone? It’s not a test. You’re a _catch_ , is all.”

Steve is violently ashamed, he could _bathe in bleach_ , he is shivering and cold and hot and he might vomit, he _wants_ to tell Bucky, he thinks he will vomit, he—

Bucky rolls onto his stomach, pushes up on his elbows, and takes hold of Steve’s hands. “Babe, you’re shaking, what is it?”

He’s worried, Steve can tell. Steve has worried him, frightened him, and that’s the last thing Bucky needs, and—

“I’m right here,” says Bucky, drawing closer. 

“Rumlow,” says Steve. (In a dozy haze he had once called Rumlow “Buck” and been mortified. Tried to pass it off as an attempt to call him “Brock.”)

Bucky tenses. Other people wouldn’t notice, but Steve does—His whole body is on edge, ready to lash out. He sits up, still holding Steve’s hands, and Steve follows. “What about him?”

“I—” Bucky’s grip on his hands is tight, but Steve clings to the feel of it. _Stay here, stay now, look at him_. “There wasn’t anyone else, since I woke up, just one person—Just him—I slept with him.” He waits for Bucky to drop his hands, scrabble backward in disgust and anger and betrayal, only he forgot. Damn him for a fool, he forgot. 

In all the war and sparkle and horror and gloss between _then_ and _now_ , he forgot that Bucky was raised by Winnie Barnes and Winnie Barnes didn’t put up with _shit_. He forgot that Bucky, walking with him through Naples one winter night followed women’s screams to a nearby brothel, out of which—pacifist or no—he dragged two drunk GIs by their hair, and after that, when he disappeared three nights in a row, Steve finally tracked him down to the same spot, plunked on the ground in the shadows, having asked the women inside if he could keep lookout. He forgot that Bucky knows a sonafabitch when he sees one.

“That fucking g-ddamn piece of shit _bastard_ ,” says Bucky. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

“You’ll stay away from him,” says Steve, still shaking, “and G-d willing we’ll never see him again.” He had wanted to hunt Rumlow down himself, punish him for what had been done to Bucky, but wanted even more to keep as much distance as possible between them, forever. 

Bucky twists the front of Steve’s shirt in his hand and yanks him forward, leaving their faces inches apart. “G-d has _nothing_ to do with it. That _bastard_ , Steve, he _hurt_ you, you think I can’t tell he hurt you, that g-ddamn sadist and I will, Steve, I will fucking _kill him_. I _deserve_ to kill him. Slowly. _Very slowly._ ”

“I’m sorry,” says Steve, crumpling over the words. “I’m sorry, I’m—”

“Don’t _you_ fucking _apologise_. If you think you have to—”

“Please stop shouting,” says Steve, as calmly as he can manage, heart breaking because this is Bucky, _his_ Bucky, who once never wanted to pick up a gun but always finished the fights Steve started, who wasn’t a prude but still never said G-d, who had better tools for cussing than _English_ , if he was going to do it. He covers his face with one hand, embarrassed, eyes wet, and feels Bucky deflate next to him, like a punctured tire. Faceless men had stolen _everything_ from Bucky, even his words, and Steve himself hardly speaks his mother’s language anymore. He shivers. 

“What,” says Bucky.

Steve knows he’s about to say, _can I do_? and so he cuts him off. “I don’t know.” Face covered, tears leaking. “I didn’t know if I should tell you.”

“Did you want to? Forget worrying about me—Did _you_ want to tell _me_?”

Steve nods, clenching his teeth hard.

“Then yes, you should have.” He’s still gripping Steve’s shirt-front, though he’s pulled back. “Stevie, I’m sorry, don’t cry—I shouldn’t have—Look, the other one, the leader. Pierce.” Until afterward, Bucky hadn’t known his handlers’ names, only their faces. Sometimes, only their voices. “I trusted him.”

“Bucky—”

“Let me finish. I trusted him, they made me trust him, it’s all messed up in my head, but that bastard, Rumlow, I _never_ did. He looked at me like he was _starving_. He was a rabid dog on chain.”

Steve cries into his hands—Wrenching, snotty tears.

Bucky says, “Can I—Do you want— _Stevie_ —” and Steve nods and Bucky pulls him close. Wraps around him tight as a clinging vine. “He never touched me,” he says, answering the question Steve can’t bear to ask.

Steve pulls him even closer, wanting to be crushed.

“And he won’t touch you again,” says Bucky. “Never, never, never.”

“You’re very earnest,” says Steve, snuffling.

 

*** *** *** 

 

In December, Steve and Bucky go ice-skating at Wollman Rink. ‘Tasha complains about security (“Central _Park_ , Steve?”) and Bucky about the cost (“ _Eighteen_ dollars?”), but Steve tells Bucky to shut up and ‘Tasha that she’s more than welcome to have snipers on them for the duration, if it makes her feel better, though he only says that because he knows she won’t. (“Wouldn’t stop me,” whispered Bucky. “I _heard_ that,” ‘Tasha said.)

Steve was never good at skating, hasn’t tried it since the late thirties, but Bucky was a natural and his body remembers. He skates backward while Steve clings to the rail.

“This was _your_ idea, babe,” says Bucky, who uses the endearment without starting, now. “Wave for Natasha.”

“You think she’s watching?” Steve cranes his neck and nearly loses his balance.

“Pay attention, I was joking,” says Bucky, but he’s smiling, and Steve doesn’t mind embarrassing himself if it puts that look on Bucky’s face. 

“Sugar,” he says, “the least you could do is make yourself useful.”

“Alright.” He pries Steve’s hands from the boards, holding them in his own. “Okay, I got you. Don’t panic.”

“I’m not panicking.”

“You look like you’re panicking.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Okay, look.” Bucky swings round, left arm around Steve’s waist, bracing him. “You’re trying to walk. Don’t try to walk.”

Steve wobbles.

“ _Glide_ , Bambi.” Bucky demonstrated. “Bend your knees.”

“Saucy,” says Steve, without thinking, innuendo so much a part of their old banter. He panics, then slips and falls on his butt, at least averting the awkwardness of the moment. Bucky gets him to his feet and eventually, he manages a shuffling glide even without Bucky’s grip, the two of them circling the rink until dark.

 

After, over cocoa and and under a space-heater on a nearby café patio, Bucky says, “I want to tell you something.”

“Shoot,” says Steve, and licks his spoon. He nibbles a cookie, figuring Bucky will be more at ease if not under direct attention, the way Tony likes to drive.

“You have to look.” 

His brittle tone makes Steve lifts his head.

Bucky holds out his right hand. “See?” A long, jagged scar cuts across his palm. 

Steve bites his lip. While they were both infused with the serum, or variations on it, at least, Steve had Dr. Erskine try to stop the machine when he was in pain, while Bucky was tortured for the sake of it. Steve was loved and meant to be looked at, while Bucky was utilised and meant to kill, efficiently.Steve’s body heals quickly and without marks, but Bucky’s is tuned for speed and ignorant of cosmetics or comfort.

“You know what that is?”

Steve shakes his head. 

“When you came for me in the factory,” says Bucky, “we were dragging ourselves up those stairs, do you remember?” He has the look of a man sharing a well-aired war story, but his words bear a questioning edge, afraid Steve might disprove him. “And we crossed on that footbridge?”

Steve nods, encouraging.

“I grabbed the railing,” says Bucky, “and I tore my hand. Bloody mess, infected—and it left this nasty scar.”

Steve nods again, though he’s not sure what’s wanted, but Bucky smiles. It’s not his old cocksure grin, but it’s genuine, and when he speaks again, he speaks triumphantly.

“When I see it, I remember you.” He traces the mark. “It has to be real, see, because my hand—They could plant false memories, but why would they make me think that a single man, my best guy, could tear them down like that? Like it was nothing—Like _they_ were nothing. Sometimes I thought _I_ made it up, this fantasy to keep me holding on, but then I’d look at it and I’d—know. They tried and tried to make me forget you, said you were just a man on a bridge and I didn’t know you, and sometimes it worked, but never for good.”

Steve drains his mug, wipes his mouth, and says, “I love you.” His calf muscle seizes; he ignores it. 

“We aren’t soulmates,” says Bucky. “I’m one-sided, you belong with someone else.”

Steve reaches across the table and grabs Bucky’s hand. “I’m written on you,” he says. “Maybe I should let you be, but I can’t, because I tried that and the whole world, everything, has changed since then—I want you, sugar, and if you want me, we can figure out the rest on the way.”

Bucky leans back and presses his fist to his mouth. “What about Peg?”

“You _know_ about Peg,” says Steve, because it’s no good lying. “She owns a piece of me and I gaveit to her to keep.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know what I am anymore, a man or a soldier or a science fair project, but—Buck, we’re nothing like we were, but maybe that’s okay, maybe that’s better, because back then I was—I was trying not to hurt anyone and instead I hurt _everyone_. And I was jealous.”

“ _You_ were jealous? Why? You were perfect, you were this hero right out of a news reel— _I_ was jealous. I remember—I know it doesn’t mean much, but I was trying and you were—”

“You have always been— _spectacular_ ,” says Steve. “You had all the power and the, the _beauty_ to fight, to _win_ , and you chose not to—G-d, I admired you, you were so brave.”

“Brave to turn my back on what I believed in?” 

“You did what you thought was right,” says Steve. “You tried, one piece at a time, and you sacrificed yourself for it—What’s not brave about that?” ( _Bucky needed someone to tell him he was right._ ) “And it was never in the past.” ( _You telling me you think that supersoldier magic potion cured you of me?_ ) “It was never ‘ _loved_.’ I panicked, I was—But it was never _loved_ , never over and done.”

Bucky is still and silent across the table, his hand still under Steve’s.

Steve’s heart pounds. “If you want me, I’m yours. If not, I’m still your friend. Do what you want.”

“What I want?”

Steve nods. “Anything you want? You want to go back to school?”

Bucky sucks his teeth. “I can’t go back to school.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You were gonna, after the war.”

“You pedant, shut up. This is not what I meant.” Bucky gestures at himself. “ _This_ is not someone who goes back to school.”

“Land of the Free, Buck.”

“Land of insurmountable student debt, more like.”

“You want it, I’ll get it for you.”

“Don’t leave me,” says Bucky. “Not like you did before, I mean. I won’t make you promise anything else—Just _tell_ me: Not like that.”

Steve shakes his head. “I _won’t_.”

“And I want to kiss you.”

“I suppose,” say Steve, “that we could also start there.”

Bucky laughs, then, and slides his chair closer, plants a hand on Steve’s chest, and kisses him—Not Steve’s first kiss since 1945, but one unparalleled, for sure, Bucky’s hand curled into his shirt and mouth against his, and then Bucky holding him, face pressed against Steve’s neck. ( _heavy and steady and half on top of him, fingers curled into his hair and face mashed against his throat_ ). 

Bucky blinks.

“Hello to you, too,” says Steve. 

“I’m not easy,” says Bucky. “It’s so good to touch you. I forgot how good. Good again, here, good _differently._ The _air_ is different, now.”

“Do you not recall how long it took me to get you into bed?” Steve strokes Bucky’s hair. “I wanted you since we were kids, since I kissed you on my birthday, even. I know you’re not easy.”

“I mean it.” When Bucky pulls back, his eyes are red and wet. “I don’t know what I’ll do, or how I’ll change, or what this—this _body_ will do. It’s part of why I stayed gone so long. I _hate_ this body some days and I’ll show it, I know, in your blood or mine, I know I will.”

Steve puts his hands on Bucky’s face, tracing Bucky’s cheekbones with his thumbs. “You took care of me for a long time,” he says. “And now I’m going to take care of you, and it’s not an exchange or a debt or a transaction or charity—It’s what we do, ‘cos I like having you around.” He sucks his teeth. “Sam said… Before he knew about Peg, he wondered if my Mark was waiting for me, all the years I was—frozen. And I wondered, too—I think, I mean—I _know_ I changed, the serum, and _you_ knewit at Krossberg. I was—I changed, but still, we were like bullets coming for each other—I’ve been waiting for you, something else in my blood or my bones that knew to wait for you. And even if it didn’t, _G-d_ , Buck, haven’t we waited long enough?”

Bucky climbs onto Steve’s lap, then, the chair creaking precariously beneath them, and kisses him. “Maybe I could go to college,” he says. “Maybe. I’m not promising anything.”

“That scar,” says Steve, gasping. “That's _our_ Mark, it’s real experience, we’re _written on each other_.”

When a passerby makes an audible noise of disgust, Bucky flips out his gloved left hand in a gesture impressively obscene, given how he’s otherwise occupied. 

It’s the best day Steve’s had in years. 

 

Bucky makes a crack about chivalry when Steve walks him to the door, but Steve knows neither of them want to say goodnight and though he would take Bucky upstairs in less than a New York minute, he can’t push. Despite their intimacy at the rink, he’s shy—The future has made him shy, a hard habit to break. The lobby is deserted. “You’ll—be okay? Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Bucky jams his hands in his pockets. 

“Night, then.” Steve turns to go, but Bucky coughs, pointedly, and when Steve looks back, he finds him with the shadow of an old smirking on his lips, pointing to his face with his index finger. Steve laughs in spite of himself and leans forward to lightly kiss him, wrapping him in a hug and whispering, overcome in the moment, struggling to _show_ what he feels, “I’d leave the Avengers for you tomorrow, you know.”

Bucky laughs, a huff of air against his neck. “Naw, you wouldn’t.”

Steve pulls back, stands with one hand on each of Bucky’s shoulders, looks him directly in the eye, and says with as much conviction as he can muster “I _would_.” He kisses Bucky again, longer this time, then adds, “I would, tomorrow, and—and we’d—never go back.”

Bucky bunches the back of Steve’s shirt in his fists and says, once again into his neck, voice low, “You wouldn’t.”

“Sugar,” says Steve, “for _you_ , I _would_ ,” and then Bucky shoves him against a row of wall-mounted mailboxes, clutching his hands and pushing his arms above his head. 

“You would never,” he says, breathing heavily. “It’d kill you, you couldn’t, but just tell me again anyway, tell me you’ll leave them.”

“I will,” Steve gasps. “Tomorrow, if you want, and I won’t even tell ‘em, I’ll— _G-d_ , I’ll just—”

Bucky cuts him off with a kiss and a mumbled, “Again, Stevie, _please_ , tell me again.”

“”We’ll, um, we’ll disappear,” says Steve, though he can hardly think straight enough to string a sentence together, Bucky working a leg between his own, Bucky’s mouth against his throat. “We’ll go underground, I won’t tell them or anyone, we’ll leave, they’ll never— _Jesus_ , find us, and—And—”

Bucky stumbles back suddenly. “Shit, fuck, Steve, dammit, was I hurting you? Are you okay?”

Still leaning against the mailboxes and breathing heavily, Steve wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “You weren’t hurting me. It was—good.

“I know it was me started it, but it was too much.”

“It’s okay, it was good, Buck. You, um, want me to go?” Bucky nods miserably and Steve hates to do it, it’d be a wrenching in him at the best of times, not least of all when half a minute before, Bucky had been— But he puts a gentle smile on his face and says, “Good night, then.”

“But I’ll see you tomorrow?” Bucky’s brow creases with worry.

“We’ll hit the gym, like we said. I’ll come get you? Not that you, um, need an escort, but—”

“That’s good,” says Bucky. “That’s great.” He looks down at his right hand, then lifts it to Steve’s face like he’s testing a theory. Steve closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

“Tomorrow, then?”

“I know you’d never do it,” says Bucky, his voice gentle—loving, even. “And I could never ask you to, anyway.”

Steve has no response. He can’t seem to say goodbye and Bucky lingers too, still at the door when he looks back one last time from the sidewalk. 

 


	3. The Better Angels of Our Nature

 

**December 2015**

**New York City**

**[ R E S T A R T ]**

 

Steve is out the door before 0500. He feels good to have a routine, even better sticking to one—still, if he’s honest, thrilling at the ability to exert himself without debilitating pain—and better still to share it with Bucky. ( _Bucky working a leg between his own, Bucky’s mouth against his throat_ ) He wonders how Bucky slept, or is sleeping—Or did he sleep? Did Bucky think about him? ( _Focus, Rogers._ ) But as he speeds past a corner bodega, eager to work up some heat and warm his muscles, a stack of newsprint stops him outright in the crisp and dusky morning. 

He hasn’t mistaken it—That _is_ a picture of him on the cover of _The New York Post._ A picture of him at the cafe in the Park, stippled in living colour beneath a headline that reads—

He rubs his eyes, thinking that he’s still pretty shit on comprehension, he must have misunderstood, but though he runs through a litany of explanations and excuses, he has to accept the truth. The only money on him is a tenner for breakfast tucked into the waistband of his pants, so he chucks the bill at the dozy cashier, then bolts without waiting for change, bound for Stark Tower at a dead sprint with the newspaper tucked under his arm, dialling his phone as he runs. 

Standing outside Tony’s penthouse, he asks Jarvis, again, to please get Tony up, it’s an emergency; if he knocks, he’ll put his fist through the door.

The door swings open and Steve finds Pepper, dressed in athletic wear of her own, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail. “Steve? What’s wrong?”

“I need to talk to Tony,” says Steve. “Now. It’s an emergency.” He immediately regrets causing the flash of terror that crosses her face. “Not a—Chitauri-type emergency. Look, I—”

Tony’s voice, thick with sleep, rings out from the bedroom. “We’re ninety-three floors up, how can there be unsolicited callers?” 

Steve pushes past Pepper, rudely, but he doesn’t care, and charges into the bedroom. Fortunately, Tony is dressed—well, half-dressed, but Steve wouldn’t have cared if they were both naked. “I need your help,” he says. “I can’t reach ‘Tasha, and I can’t reach Bucky, and I don’t know what to do or where—”

If Tony was groggy before, he’s alert, now, eyes bright as he tugs a robe off the back of a chair. “It’s six o’clock in the morning—What’s going on?”

Steve throws _The New York Post_ onto the bed, leaving the front page glaring up at them, Steve furious at the end of the bed and Pepper at Tony’s side. Above a blurry picture that shows Bucky squashed into Steve’s lap the day before are the words that will tear down his fragile happiness: ALLEGATIONS SURFACE REGARDING CAPTAIN AMERICA’S ROLE IN SHIELD COLLAPSE. 

Pepper puts a hand over her mouth. Tony closes his eyes. 

“I don’t know who could have leaked this,” says Steve, “but we need to plug it, fast.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t care if all they had were pictures of me making time with some guy in the park, but the things they know… It’s active overseas and it’s hit Twitter, and I don’t know how to deal with this stuff, but you do, and—” Steve gropes for words.

Pepper has already pulled out her phone. “I’ll start the calls.”

Tony says, “Pep,” and nothing else, and Steve hears—warning?

Pepper ignores him, phone pressed to her ear. “‘Tasha has a seven o’clock downstairs,” she tells Steve. “I’ll get her up here.”

“Great,” says Tony, sarcastic and furrow-browed. “Party in Tony’s bedroom.”

Into the phone, Pepper says, “Thank goodness. Are you downstairs already? You saw it? I need you up here ten minutes ago.”

The garish newsprint claws at Steve’s attention, but he forces his gaze away. “What am I going to do?” His stomach flips.

Pepper, face blanched, says, “ _Tony_.” Then she’s back on her phone, though she covers the mouthpiece with her hand to say, “If you don’t think every penny of damage-control is coming out of your pocket, you’ve got another thing coming.” Snapping back to her professional voice, she says, “Yes, this is Pepper Potts. I’m looking for Christine Everhart.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” says Tony, but Pepper raises one finger in an unmistakeable _Shut up!_

“Tony,” says Steve, “why is Pepper looking at you like that?”

Tony folds his arms across his chest. Squares his shoulders. “I didn’t say a damn thing to _The New York Post_ , if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But you said—something. To someone?” Steve speaks slowly, still confused. He grabs the bedpost to steady himself. This can’t be. “This—You? You did this?”

Before Tony can answer, Clint and ‘Tasha stride in. “Hey, friends and lovers,” says Clint. “What’s shaking?”

“By all means,” says Tony, petulant. “Make yourselves at home.”

“Have you _read_ this?” Still focused on Tony, Steve is incredulous. “Do you know what they’re saying about me? About _him_?”

“ _The Post_ is a rag,” says Tony. “It’s toilet paper. Forget it.”

But the words are already burned into Steve’s memory. He shoves the paper at Pepper, who reads, “‘A confidential source alleges that the DC Bridge Shooter can be associated not only with the destruction of the Triskelion last May, but also with a substantial list of political assassinations dating back at least twenty-five years. Even more shocking, the _Post_ has obtained evidence that this assassin, alias the Winter Soldier, is alleged to have been intimately involved with Steven Rogers, lately of SHIELD and better known as Captain America.’” 

Steve glares. “Pictures on Page Six.”

“I’ve always wanted to be on Page Six,” says Tony. “But Rupert Murdoch had a grudge—”

“Shut _up_ ,” says Steve, vibrating with anger. If Tony moves to call for the suit, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. “Are you the source?”

“Steve,” say Pepper and ‘Tasha in unison.

“I’m not talking to you.” His eyes don’t leave Tony’s. “Are you the source? Answer me.”

“I’m not the source,” says Tony, “but—”

Steve breathes slowly, in and out. “But?”

Tony presses his fist to his mouth, muffling his voice. “It started with me.”

In an instant, ‘Tasha and Clint are between them. “Alright,” says Clint, rolling his shoulders, shifting from foot to foot. “Everybody be cool.”

“But this isn’t what I wanted—This is exactly the kind of situation I wanted avoid, but no, _you_ know best and it’s ass-over-teakettle for Mur—”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Steve shouts. “Don’t even _talk_ about him. Just listen. Read the rest, Pepper.”

“Steve—”

“ _Read the rest._ ”

She does. “‘While neither Rogers nor Carter have ever confirmed their status, many modern historians posit that the two were soulmates. Carter could not be reached for comment before press-time.”

Tony looks about to vomit.

“She can’t be reached for comment,” says Steve, “because she’s in a g-ddamn _hospital_. Do you know what they’re saying? Do you? ‘Captain America dumps his dementia-addled soulmate to fuck the Russian assassin who shot Kennedy?’”

“To be fair,” says Tony, tossing his head, “is that not what happened?”

Steve lunges, but Clint and ‘Tasha barrel him backward, and though he could break free easily enough, he holds enough control that wanting to hurt Tony doesn’t overrule _not_ wanting to hurt the others. Pepper wears misery, torn between worry and disgust. 

Tony scrubs his face. “I didn’t mean that, I didn’t—I’m sorry. I swear, this is not the story I wanted. I mean, I didn’t want any story, I—”

“I don’t think you specified which story you wanted. I think you gave up the details and washed your hands of it.” Tony holds out his arms, helpless, and Steve snaps, “Maybe you told yourself you were helping, but underneath that pompous self-regard you wanted—”

“Don’t talk to me about pompous self-regard—”

“—To ruin him. You look at him and you see a murderer, but—”

“Steve, he _is a_ murderer—He put _my_ family on the block.”

“You outed me,” says Steve. “You knew it wasn’t public knowledge and you outed me anyway, and you know what he means to me, what he’s been through, and you may have sicced a passel of bloodthirsty hacks on Peg, which is the last thing on this earth that she deserves. You promised me your confidence. _You_ wanted to be a team—What the hell _is_ this?”

“This is me _saving your ass_ ,” Tony snaps.

“Shut _up_ ,” shouts Steve, but ‘Tasha tugs at his elbow. 

“Steve, stop,” she says. “We’ll fix this, but not here. Come away, now.”

“I told you,” says Tony. “You’re not careful about him. And you can’t be trusted, so long as you trust him.”

“ _He_ is gone,” says Steve. “He’s not in his apartment or answering messages, and if he hurts himself, or anyone else, it’s on _you_ , do you understand?”

“Get out of my house.”

Steve means only to slam the front door, but knocks it off its hinges, pausing for only a moment to try to fix it before he gives up, stumbles to the emergency stairs, and weeps. Hearing footsteps behind him, he says, “Leave me alone, ’Tasha.”

“No,” she says.

“I will lash out,” he says. “I will kill someone, I am not in control.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says ‘Tasha. “Of course you are.” She crouches beside him. “I trust you.” 

Her words puncture his berserker fury. “I can’t protect them,” he says, dragging his hand across his face. “Peg and Bucky. Not when I was a kid, not in ’44, not now.”

“I’ll find him” says ‘Tasha, a steely glint in her eye. “And you _did_ —That’s why you’re here, now, on this staircase in 2015: Because you were protecting them.”

Steve wipes his nose on his sleeve. “No, I—”

“You and me, we were sitting in Wilson’s spare room and you said you trusted me. Did you mean it?”

“I’m always honest,” says Steve, snuffling.

“Then go back to your apartment and stay there. Don’t answer the phone or the door unless it’s me, Clint, Pepper—yes, Pepper—or Wilson. And stay off the Internet.”

“But I can’t sit—”

“You can and you will. Disappearing the day this story breaks isn’t a smart move. As far as _anyone_ is concerned, you are both at home in your own, separate apartments. I’ve already got Pepper calling Sharon to put Carter’s clinic on alert.” She kisses Steve’s forehead. “As for all this, er, family drama—We’ll sort it, but until then, stay away from Tony. I didn’t defect for anything but the best, Rogers.”

“I trusted him,” says Steve.

“It’s 2015, not 1861. Trust the better angels of your nature until I get back.” She stands, then offers her hand to pull him to his feet. “Clint’ll give you a ride home, okay?”

“We were sorting ourselves out,” says Steve. “We were getting started.”

 

The knot in his chest tightens when he finds his apartment empty. Of course it is, but he had hoped… Instead, all he has is an echo-chamber and his promise to ‘Tasha to stay put. But when has he ever been good at _that_? He paces, does the dishes by hand, does them again, then caves to sick curiosity and boots his computer. The only pictures currently on _The Post_ ’s website are from the Park, but Steve dreads that they might have been followed all the way to Bucky’s building. The comments themselves sicken him, but he can’t look away. On Twitter, #notmycaptain is trending; so is #bisexualsteverogers2k15. On NPR, a Columbia professor has theorised that the social backlash toward abandoning one’s soulmate—he actually uses that word, _abandon_ , as if Steve wouldn’t have lived any other way, if he could have—is rooted in a community’s “collective disgust to those who put other members at risk.”

He knows what Bucky would say to that: Evolutionary psychology bullshit.

The buzzer rings and Steve nearly jumps out of his skin. He picks up the handset and hears, “Steve, it’s Pepper. I’m alone.”

He lets her in, but doesn’t offer a chair or a drink. 

She ignores the slight, or else doesn’t notice it, standing at the counter to spread a stack of papers. “We’ve prepared a statement. Obviously, I can’t force you to use it, but I’d recommend it.” She loosens her ponytail, then combs her fingers through her hair. “You have a couple of options—Technically, they’re Barnes’s options, but unless he turns up soon, it’s on you. One, we get right on top of it—We give the facts exclusive to Christine Everhart. Don’t look at me like that: She’s legit. Two, we counter—The man in the photographs is your—boyfriend, partner, whatever you want to say—but just an ordinary guy, nothing to do with who he really is. Make it clear he and the Bridge Shooter are two very different people.”

“But that’s the _truth_ ,” says Steve. “Pepper, they _are_. It’s not _Bucky_. How can that not be understood?”

“Honey,” says Pepper, and she says it kindly, without condescension, “not everyone is like you.” She puts her hair back up. “It wouldn’t happen. Not without a very lengthy, very ugly trial.”

“I have ideals, not fantasies,” says Steve. “He wouldn’t get a trial.”

“Three,” says Pepper, ignoring him, “you can shut everything down, national security and what not—But Steve, that’s only going to make people dig harder.”

“Did you know Tony was going to do this?”

“I knew he was angry and upset about Barnes,” says Pepper. “I knew he was worried—and I mean genuinely frightened, Steve—for you.”

Steve huffs.

“He spoke to a contact of Rhody’s—And don’t take this out on Rhody, he had nothing to do with it. I’ve been running down the trail all morning—Tony went to Rhody for advice, Steve, and I knew that, but I didn’t know, obviously, that it got away from them—I don't know how yet, I’m tracing the leak. Whoever it is, the little shit sold out to the rags. Nobody’s connected the Bridge Shooter with _Barnes_ , though. His name is still in the clear.”

Steve says nothing.

“Tony misses his parents,” says Pepper.

“ _I_ miss my parents,” says Steve. “You think dying of mustard gas or TB is any more fair?”

“Read the statement,” says Pepper. “Call me in an hour and tell me if you want to meet with Everhart or if you want to start spinning.” She darts a quick look at his computer. “And stay off the Internet.” At the door, she turns back and adds, “You two are the same, you know.”

“That’s offensive.”

“Both guided by morality entirely your own,” she says, ignoring his jibe. “You have a vision of what’s right and you won’t be swayed from it.”

Steve frowns.

“We’re all trundling along as best we can. Nobody’s life is a wrapped-up five-act play–You’ve started to think it is, and so has Tony, because you live in the middle of these huge narratives. Not that either of you would admit it—Or step away from a pissing contest!”

“Hmph.”

“I went in for a interview,” she says. “I hate job hunting. No idea, I’d find him, my soulmate, on the other side. You should have seen _his_ face—The little bastard tried to make me sign a non-disclosure agreement.” She shakes her head, but smiles all the same. “For years, I thought we were an oddity, that there was something _wrong_ with me, because we were soulmates and happy and still I didn’t want to be his lover, or anyone’s.” She locks eyes with Steve, then. “They’ve tied soulmates to puberty, now—to part of adolescence—but people always manage to forget that the rules of culture aren’t the rules of the body or the heart. I don’t have to tell you, I know, how hard it is to break that mould. Life isn’t cut and dry, Steve. We are messy creatures.”

“Goodbye, Pepper.”

“ _Listen_ to me—Do you realise how scared he must have been? He didn’t even tell _me_.” 

“Because you would have stopped him,” says Steve, though her words linger after she goes.

 

He approves the statement, but insists that it not be released in print—That he’ll read it aloud, only. Pepper objects, but Steve is intractable, and so she schedules a conference for six o’clock that evening.

“At the Tower,” she says, insisting when Steve resists. “United front, even if you don’t feel it.”

Waiting at home, though, he can’t concentrate. He considers smashing all his crockery just to have something to clean up, but can’t bear the waste. Sam Skypes as soon as he sees the news and apologises for not calling sooner, but Steve is just grateful to have him to talk to And tells him so. 

Then, at four-thirty, his phone rings. He’s received press calls on and off all day and not answered them, but this one is followed by the _ping!_ of ‘Tasha’s text message tone, so Steve answers the second call like a shot. Her voice, tinny and distant, crackles down the line: She’s found him.

“Is he okay? Are you okay? Where are you?”

“I’m won’t say over this line,” says ‘Tasha, “but we’re both fine.”

“Are you close? You must be. When are you coming back?”

“I’ll be back tonight.”

Steve’s stomach drops. “But he’s won’t.”

Then a rustling and scraping, the handset being jostled, and Bucky’s rough, beautiful Brooklyn voice fills Steve’s ears. “Listen to me,” he says. “It’s going to be okay, I promise.”

“It isn’t,” says Steve. “Please come home.”

“I don’t have a home.”

“You could, if you wanted, with me.”

“Stevie, you need to listen to me, now—”

“No, you listen—Buck, I meant what I said, in the Park.”

“I never doubted, but listen, _please_ , I’m—”

“You don’t need to apologise, you know that. I love you. Come home.”

“Listen to me, you _have to listen_ , now—I love you, too, you know that. You _know._ And that film— _that_ one, Carmen Miranda and ‘Remember the Calypso.’ Thank you for showing it to me. It’s still in my apartment.”

“What?” says Steve, but the line goes dead.

 

Steve strips as he walks, numb, toward the bathroom. _Remember the Calypso._ He and Bucky had giggled like kids at that one line—It wasn’t hardly even funny. That ridiculous movie—Havana! Ha! They’d watched a dozen others Bucky had enjoyed more. Steve had been tracking down Molly Picon movies, intending them for a surprise, but now—

Havana.

His heart pounds.

He can’t believe they still say Cuba promotes state-sponsored terrorism.

_Havana._

He climbs into the shower and counts his blessings: He’s alive, Peg’s alive, Bucky’s alive, and they’re going to make this right.

 

***

 

At the press conference, Steve ignores the itch of his uncomfortable suit and turns on his best USO charm. By the time he taps his mic, the assembled journalists are eating out of his hand, and he knows it. He holds Pepper’s carefully prepared statement in front of him, smooths its crumpled corners, takes a deep breath, then ignores it completely and says, 

 

_For those of you who aren’t aware, my name is Steven Grant Rogers and—And apart from sodomy when it was still illegal in this state, I’ll point out it's_ still _illegal in some others, and a frankly negligible amount of underage drinking—and, um, lying on my enlistment forms, I have never broken the law. I have given you, all of you, this country my life, and I would do it again. You can give me my g-ddamn privacy._

 

He tucks Pepper’s statement into his jacket pocket and strides out the service door, leaving a sea of stunned faces and a locked door behind him. “Weren’t expecting _that_ , were you,” he says, once he’s secure in the hall.

‘Tasha emerges from the shadows. “You did harbour a fugitive. Pretty sure _that’s_ against the law.”

“The Bridge Shooter is a fugitive,” says Steve. “I only had my best friend to stay.”

“Clint’s got the car out back.” ‘Tasha jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “We figured you’d do something, er, _rash_.”

“Just stick a fork in me,” says Steve, “because I am fucking done.”

“Tony was right about one thing: You certainly have no sense when it comes to that man.” ‘Tasha grins. “Get in the car.”

 

“Did you know,” she says, once they’re tucked into Clint’s ratty ride, “that Tony Stark once got drunk enough in front of me to tell me he used to think his parent’s crash was his fault?”

Steve leans toward the front passenger seat. “Don’t you go switching sides on me.”

“There’s no sides,” says Clint, abruptly swerving into the next lane. 

“ _Jesus_ , Barton,” says Tasha. “Who taught you to drive? And, Steve? What he said—No sides, but you’re riding pretty high, so I need you to understand something.”

Steve twitches his mouth. “Fine.”

“He said he delayed them, his parents—Until they left that night without him.”

He tries to imagine Tony as a young man: Just turned twenty-one, just Marked, just orphaned—but only comes back with a confusing blend of Howard circa 1943 and Bucky a decade before that, sitting fully dressed in the front hall. _It’s my responsibility. As a man._

“That’s a burden all by itself, that kind of guilt—Even unwarranted.”

“I’m taking you back to Brooklyn,” says Clint, interrupting. “Right?”

“Yeah,” says Steve, and gives Bucky’s address.

“But imagine, then,” says ‘Tasha, “that the universe grants you irrefutable proof that it _wasn’t_ your fault. Suddenly, then, you’re _grateful_ your parents were murdered—How’s that for a mindfuck?”

Steve has always thought of himself as an adult. There had been no leeway when he was young: His Brooklyn said grow up or get out of the way. Life was good, but never easy—Then Sarah died, then he and Bucky scrabbled to make ends meet, then he was CO to the Commandos. He has always had to step up, bear up, and in a dark place he doesn’t like to acknowledge, he’s been frustrated by Tony’s privileges. The man is a genius, as he’s so fond of pointing out, and fifteen years Steve’s senior—That he could suffer the way ‘Tasha describes is, to Steve’s self-incriminating shame, a revelation. And maybe, too, he’s angry, because what ‘Tasha describes is _him_ : How it felt to knock the mask from the Winter Soldier’s face and find his best friend underneath—The appalling, gut-twisting shame of being _grateful_ that Bucky was tortured seventy years because at least it meant Steve could find him again. 

“Steve?”

He realises he’s been ignoring ‘Tasha longer than conversationally reasonable. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I was thinking about what you said. You remember my birthday, when you said how strange it was, we were all the same age and so different?”

‘Tasha frowns, quizzical, but says, “Yeah?”

“You all think I’m young, but I’m not—But I am. You all think I’m old-fashioned, but I was a radical, before. I don’t have—anything that—would have said I’d _grown up_ , back then: A wife, kids, a steady job.” _Peg._ “All those orderly steps, all those milestones. I’ve been doing everything backwards and upside-down.”

“I was talking to Pepper during your, uh, _speech_ ,” says Clint. “You know Tony would _literally_ move the Earth to have you talk to him again.”

His words bite at Steve’s heart. The problem with having Tony Stark care about you was the subsequent amplification of his obstinacy and intolerability. “I was wrong not to see how much he was hurting,” says Steve. “I was not wrong about Bucky.”

“Fair enough,” says Clint. ‘Tasha is silent. 

 

Clint drops him at the back of the building, where Steve tugs the fire-escape down. 

“Call me tonight,” says ‘Tasha, “so I know you’re okay.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I mean it, Rogers—You get one night off, but shit is going to hit the fan with this. They’ll find this apartment, soon. Just don’t—” She hesitates. “Don’t disappear. That’s not the play you want.” She pauses, then adds, “I want you to stay.”

Steve looks her in the eye. “I’ll call you tonight. I promise.” 

When he steps onto the ladder, she calls him after him, “What exactly are you doing here?” 

“Making myself a new purpose,” said Steve. “A smaller one, but a better one. Also I lent him a movie and I want it back.”

“Fine, keep your secrets.” Tasha climbs back into the car. “But be careful!”

Inside, a DVD with a phone number written on the top in permanent marker sits next to the candles set in the window. 

 

***

 

Within a week, Steve—working alone—finds the Bridge Shooter’s body in a Brooklyn warehouse, surrounded by shipping crates from an uptown clothing shop called Calypso St Barths.

He calls it in, the boys in blue turn up, the story breaks soon after, and suddenly—to the huddled masses, at least—everything makes sense: _Captain America_ sucking face with a dude in Central Park? Clearly undercover, the Star Spangled Man with a plan: Truth, justice, the American way. His panic, his anger, his “feud” with Stark, and that frankly _bizarre_ press conference? All part of the act, all to bring down a public enemy. A powerful hoax, well-seeded and carefully deployed. And the sacrifice—The _sacrifice_.

If Steve had thought people loved him for putting the plane in the water, even he is startled by their rabid passion for his apparent decision to run himself through the meat-grinder of public opinion for the sake of the greater good. The media harps on Peg and speculates endlessly on his Mark, but Steve is grateful, at least, that they can't get near her.

 

When Sam turns up at his apartment, Steve is packing a small suitcase and an overnight bag. Sharon has helped him say goodbye to Peg for the time-being, something he knows they both consider a truce. As for flights… Armed with pseudonymous passport, he’ll head north to Canada, first, then onward.

“I’m sorry,” says Sam, holding out empty hands. “I wanted to bring—something, but there was nothing… What could I have brought? Steve, I’m so sorry.” 

Sam hugs him fiercely and for a moment Steve nearly lets himself collapse into the embrace. Instead, though, he turns back to his luggage.

“Where are you going? Steve, you can’t—Dude, you can’t. Look, come with me, Granny’s aching to see you.”

_I can get by on my own,_ thinks Steve, remembering Bucky after Sarah died. _The thing is, you don’t have to._ “I gotta get out of town,” he says. He rubs the back of his neck, then moves to push his hair back. He may never break the habit _._ “I, um, it’s—It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” says Sam. “Of course it’s not fine.”

“Sam, you don’t need to worry.”

“Why the hell should I not?”

“Because,” says Steve. “Um, because. It’s fine.”

Sam’s mouth rounds with surprise. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” say Steve, his voice pitching high. _Oh shit._

_“Oh. My. G-d_ ,” says Sam. “Sweet bleeding Jesus, he’s alive.”

Steve considers trying once more to lie, but he can’t—He can’t. He managed it, with the police and the reporters and the sympathetic strangers who recognised him in the street. But this is Sam, who travelled the world with him and kissed him on New Year’s Eve. A smile transforms his face, which he promptly covers with his hands. “He is,” he says, laughing, the joy bursting out of him, he could _bust_. “He _is_.”

Sam flops onto the couch and stares at the ceiling. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“You asked me, once, what makes me happy,” says Steve, tucking a box of carefully-wrapped art supplies into his suitcase, though he slides his portfolio case gently into his overnight bag. Sarah’s rosary is in the front pocket—he’s not as strong in his faith as Bucky is, but he does his best—and his Frankensteined desktop computer, finished at last, gleams proudly from the corner. He thinks of lying on the sunlit floor of Bucky’s apartment watching movies, of skating in the park, of Bucky's head in his lap; of laughing until they’re nearly sick; of once more drawing so intently he forgets where he is until Bucky brings him a snack and a glass of water; of running through the city, full of energy; of bearing all their changes and loving him still, again, ’til the end of the line.“Being with _him_ makes me happy. _That’s_ what we want.”

“So you’re leaving?”

“Just—”

But Sam doesn’t let him finish. “But what about—us, your friends? You are exploding your life, everything you’ve worked for, you’re throwing it away? You built a life here, you—”

“You’re not losing me,” says Steve. “I’m not moving to Croatia, I’m not defecting—I’m subletting my apartment. I’ll be back.”

“You’re running.”

“Think of it more like—eloping.” Steve plunks himself beside Sam on the couch, turns, and kisses his forehead. “Samuel Wilson, you are privileged to find yourself at the top of my emergency phone tree.”

“Gee, thanks a bunch.”

“Please,” and Steve’s voice turns serious, his war-bonds voice, because he means this and he want Sam to know. “I love you, Sam, you are my _best friend_. Tell the others that I love them, too, very much, even Tony, and I’ll see you all soon, okay?”

“Will you tell me how you did it?”

Steve shakes his head. The options Pepper had given him assumed that he would refuse dishonesty—That at maximum, he could manage a few white lies. Most of the time, that was true, he couldn’t lie for shit, but while his friends _said_ they knew he lost his cool around Bucky, they’d never really understood: There was nothing that he would not do for James Barnes.“I could spin you a thousand and one stories,” he says. “I could tell—who was it? Christine Everhart, _Vanity Fair_ —everything about us to try to make them understand, the first time we kissed, the first time we fucked, when I knew I loved him. Watching my mother die, slowly. Overdosing on theophylline on the floor in a hospital hallway, because we couldn’t afford a bed and some doctor thought he knew what he was doing. Looking up at the Empire State Building and knowing it was the biggest, the best, and it was in _my_ town. Letting him go, after Peg, and knowing he was letting _me_ go. I could tell them everything, but I won’t—They wouldn’t understand and it belongs to us, anyway. I’m out.”

Sam looks away, blinking hard. “This is—There is no word for this.”

“I could put us on magazine covers, but I don’t want to. Our milestones are for us, Sam, not anyone else.”

“Would you have told us, if I hadn’t caught you?”

“What do take me for? Letters are already in the mail.”

“About him, I mean.”

Steve looks away, then back again; he will own the decisions he makes. “No,” he says. “But I would always have come back. Please, Sam.”

Sam wipes his eyes. “You romantic fool—Go on, get out of here.” He hugs Steve tightly. “And I take you for what you are—You’re a grown man and a great man.” He shrugged. “But you’re also just a man, yeah? So be careful.”

Steve nods. “You should know. Um. Viktoriya, she gave us the go-ahead.”

“You told _Viktoriya_?”

“Bucky trusts her,” says Steve, “and I’m not gonna mess with that. I’ll tell David when we get back.”

 

He had booked eight tickets for destinations on four continents and with Sharon’s help, sent eight ex-SHIELD agents wearing eight “borrowed” SHIELD facial nets on eight red-herring trips. With unconfirmed Captain America sightings round the globe, then, and the Avengers’ standard refrain, _We can neither confirm nor deny that any of our operatives are in the field_ , it is an easy thing—an easy, easy thing—for him to settle into an airplane seat (aisle seat, flying coach, squashed a bit, but no matter). He falls asleep during take-off.

 


	4. All Our Little Worlds (Epilogue)

_when you’re telling a story, james, you have to think about why the people in your story want the things they want—and you have to think about why you’re telling it, too. why now. why here._

 

Someone said this to me. Sarah did, Steve’s Sarah. I’d gone round looking for him one afternoon and missed him, but she was there. She was wonderful. She told me… About her as a girl in Ireland, in church, and a young priest just out of seminary said… 

 

_said adam and eve was a story. not a thing that happened just so, but an important story, still: everybody makes mistakes, but soulmates stick together._

 

G-d made souls, G-d made soulmates, G-d knows what He’s doing—So I was told, so I believed, so I still believe. But what happened to my mother’s family, to so many hundreds, thousands of families? But Becca and Bina—Their children and so many others, living still! And what happened to Sarah’s priest?

 

_the parish sent him away, replaced him with an old fire-and-brimstone fecker who preached the very same sermon, only said it showed women were weak and the devil could slither anywhere, even under a mark. so you see, stories reflect the way a lot of people feel, but not how everybody feels, so if something’s missing, james, you can fill that gap._

 

Weak! I saw Steve’s Sarah walk off a 16-hour shift straight into the annual Catholic Women’s League rummage sale, smiling to beat the band. Helped her carry Steve, bloody and asthmatic, out of the alley, that alley, that Colin Martin. (I peered down alleys for years, didn’t know what I was looking for.) She could never be weak. She called me James and so did…

Winnie.

My mother, my Sarah.

I can’t remember what Winnie knew about me, about Steve, about _me’n’Steve_. I tried to honour her, to do her right, and she told me such stories, people she’d never met but through letters, but she loved them and they jumped off the pages, her family, our family. She said…

 

_don't fuss it, my_ oytzer. _no need to worry on your mark—you’re still a boy, your time will come. look at all these people around you, loving you across city blocks and countries and oceans. aren’t we so lucky?_

 

And Peg, she was wonderful, a whirlwind, and me a jealous kid trying to get his guy's attention: Flirting with her, that bar in the dark, and red, red, red, gimmicks and tricks.

Steve saw the colour red for the first time at twenty-five and loved it. He was… Dorothy: He opened the door on Technicolor and how could he look back? I had to try to give him up. He was terribly beautiful.

He is.

 

_all changed, changed utterly._

 

He loves colour. I love him.

 

_buck, this changes everything, can you see it, did it always look like this?_

 

And in… the… factory… 

 

_it's me, it’s steve, i thought you were dead._

 

Certainty rolled through my bones like electricity. (They clamped wires to my body, rubber and blood in my mouth and—)

He was my soulmate, but I wasn’t his. Peg. Me curled up on Steve’s kitchen floor a few lifetimes later, remembering. What was the point of it, hurting that way? Did G-d know we would live, and how, and how we would need each other? (I waited for him, years and years, even when I didn’t know it, peering down alleys, tracing scars on my hand.)

But back then, after the bar, she found me. Working up to something, little tic in the corner of her jaw and because that was Steve’s tic, I knew: It was him and Peg together, and me on the outside, nose pushed up to the glass. She said…

 

_i need your help_.

 

There’s me thinking she wants me to go, get out of there, keep from embarrassing him, her, them, but no—

 

_you realise he parachuted into nazi austria, alone, for you—just for you. he's unstoppable. he frightens me, that is, i'm frightened for him. what happens when all of this is done, when he wants to go right and the men with the guns want to go left?_

 

I would tear the world down for him. (I think I tried.) He walked into Krossberg, into hell, with his eyes wide open and he did it for me. Peg knew him after all and was right to be scared, because he has always been just as he is and no serum, no concussion, no decade, no century is going to change that. I knew it then, I know it now, and the day Steve Rogers isn’t just as he is will be my last, it’ll kill me, I’m sure. Always, always, since we were kids, the same: Steve will do what Steve will do and he’ll do it if it kills him, and it won’t matter if he’s up against a back-alley bully, some Hydra goon with a tearaway face, or G-d himself. He’ll keep going until they put him down.

Which Peg was the first, besides me, to figure out. And after the helicarrier and the river, I was in Europe somewhere, Poland, maybe, and boom! Me on my knees on the gum-stuck cement because I remembered at last what she asked me to do, the promise that drove my body past the blockades thrown up in my mind: My burden to carry, my job to look out for him. Not only keep Nazis from killing him, but also keep him from doing something reckless enough to make his own people want to off him, and on top of that, watch her take him way from me. All of us loving on the sly.

 

_i can’t take him away and i can’t keep him, either. he's his own person._

 

Peg had a friend, she said, her best friend, worked at some London library, blown up by a German bomb.

I could see the loss grinding her down like a cigarette in a tray. She’d never break, that was plain, but I knew enough by then to see that the world would keep testing her—Take away everything she had and then a little bit more, just to see what she’d do. She said… 

 

_war is sacrifice_.

 

Is that what war is, really? I don’t think so. But what, then? A misery, it’s nothing but a misery, and I don’t know, anymore, how many people have died around me, under my hands, because of me.

My hands remember snapped bones, thready pulses, a man’s crushed throat… Steve says I never wanted a gun, before, but I’m a weapon and a good one. I shaped the century: No pale horse, I’m just death. I was a medic, but they trained me on a rifle.

 

_you're good._

 

I said no. I said I wanted to be a non-combatant. 

 

_we can make you._

 

I said no.

 

But Steve asked and Peg asked and I saw what was happening there, evil, plain evil like once I could never have imagined, and all my mother’s family was gone.

What else could I have done?

 

This one time I remember, I do, I was furious with him. We were out—dancing, I think—and this other asshole, he’s running his mouth, saying it’s right to refuse non-soulmate couples a marriage licence, the unmatched are no better than queers or the fuckers who have no Mark at all, and I had nothing on my body, then, and Steve sat in his seat. Put in a patient argument here and there, when he had never been patient in his life! 

He’d take a sock in the jaw for any bum off the street, I thought, but not for me. When it came to me, I thought, he just stared at his shoes, and I chewed him out for it, after. I was hurt, G-d, it hurt, and he said…

 

_you’re always saying, ‘stevie, stay out of fights, for once just keep your head,’ and so buck, I was trying, really, really trying. for you. you think i wouldn’t rather break his face, the stuff he was saying?_

 

For me, for _me,_ he tried pacifism. And besides, I didn’t want him breaking anyone’s face, not really. I wanted him safe, because I loved him, I love him—For being so stubborn, so brave; for daring anything if he thought it was right; for the sharpness of his skinny body, his hair that never stayed put; for the flame behind his eyes when he draws and paints and forgets himself in it (he works with a tablet, now, as well as his pencils and watercolours); for believing I’m no coward even when I don’t; for all his indignant fury, feelings too big for him and he carried them anyway; for every morning at the breakfast table and every night next to him, that cold Brooklyn apartment and both of so exhausted we couldn’t imagine another day, only that we knew it was coming and that when it did, we would have to meet it. 

 

For all these things. 

 

Men in boxes. Men on ice. Men that look like me. (I used to wonder, glass frosting above my face, if I was one of them: A Hydra spare, a decoy, disposable.) 

And I pulled one of them from a sealed basement in Manhattan to go down in history as the Winter Soldier, the DC Bridge Shooter, Kennedy’s assassin (what do I care who Kennedy was? I didn’t know him from Adam), carrying all my many, many sins.

On the phone, after, when Steve was in my apartment collecting the movie and his sketches and anything I wanted (my clothes, his illustration, I was humming again), I told him that everyone needs someone to blame, but we had to remember that frozen man and that I didn't kill him, he was already dead. Hydra’s body-count.

I thought he’d doubt me, though it was true, but at the other end of the line, Steve told me he believed me and I knew that he meant it and all I wanted, all I could think of was laying him down, taking off his clothes. Of waking up next to him, of learning to share that space again. Steve and a bed and a door of our own for good. I don’t want so much. Viktoriya says…

 

_you can’t have everything you want, but it doesn’t mean you can’t want it. wear the clothes your body loves and want things, all kinds of things, mr. barnes, objects and emotions and status, comfort, love, recognition—why not? all these desires, we meet them or we don’t, but that is how we live: we are not the things we carry, our music, what have you—we are the habits that sneak out, how we speak to servers and how we treat animals, very simply put. you want, you pursue, you gain or do not. time rolls on, we change, we change back—very few things are set in stone, and even then, the ocean will wear the mountain away in time._

 

I want sun—I want a sunburn and to keep my food down and to sleep through the night. I want to get drunk and sometimes, not often, less now, but sometimes, I want to go back to the beginning and tell my parents not to bother: Don’t do it, I’d say. We’ll only break each other’s hearts. Winnie and George. Steve says they were proud.

 

_you great fool, everything’s going to be alright._

 

For most of their lives, I suppose, everything was.

 

_remember the calypso._

 

We made a dream out of it, Havana, a selfish holiday paradise and that wasn’t fair, wasn’t right, but we’ll see it for real, now, and we’ll do our best. We’ll be honest. 

 

The sun scorches the back of my neck. I’ll burn, it feels good. I am my body. I belong to myself, mine to hurt if I want, but I don’t want. I want pleasure, emptiness and filling it, hunger and satisfying it, urgency and meeting it. Anticipation tugging in my belly. The absence of pain. I want Steven Grant Rogers. I want him yesterday, today, tomorrow. Standing at the international arrivals gate at José Martí, I’m fearless. I’m waiting, but not for much longer, and I wonder how he’ll like it here, how long he’ll last before he finds another little world he needs us to save. Because all our little worlds matter. Every single one.  

 

_why now. why here._

 

Because we can.


	5. Notes

 

Jonathan Goldstein’s _WireTap_ is a CBC radio show. The quotation above came from the 27 March 2015 episode, “[Forgotten History](http://www.cbc.ca/radio/wiretap/forgotten-history-1.3012217). ”

There are also several ideas that I have worked to explore in _Milestones_ that were inspired by the meta of others on Tumblr and elsewhere. Links to these as well as to some of the most interesting results of my research, in case you’d like to see, are below:

Bucky Barnes and food: [http://gemfyre.tumblr.com/post/108247630643/winter-soldiers-food-would-have-been-something](http://gemfyre.tumblr.com/post/108247630643/winter-soldiers-food-would-have-been-something)

Bucky Barnes, identity, and desire:[ http://orangemeta.tumblr.com/post/101993915545/last-snowfall-star-anise-septembriseur-i  ](http://orangemeta.tumblr.com/post/101993915545/last-snowfall-star-anise-septembriseur-i%20%20)

Bucky Barnes and physical therapy: [http://waldorph.tumblr.com/post/101043322438/the-body-of-bucky-barnes-a-massage-therapists ](http://waldorph.tumblr.com/post/101043322438/the-body-of-bucky-barnes-a-massage-therapists%20)

_Captain America_ , Joe Simon, Jack Kirby, and Judaism: 

  * [http://dalekofchaos.tumblr.com/post/109383060647/not-everyone-was-happy-with-captain-america](http://dalekofchaos.tumblr.com/post/109383060647/not-everyone-was-happy-with-captain-america)
  * [http://kerrypolka.tumblr.com/post/82601462554/captain-america-the-winter-soldier-grimdark-is](http://kerrypolka.tumblr.com/post/82601462554/captain-america-the-winter-soldier-grimdark-is)
  * [http://comixologiste.tumblr.com/post/85747062938/in-1941-jews-throughout-the-third-reich-were](http://comixologiste.tumblr.com/post/85747062938/in-1941-jews-throughout-the-third-reich-were)
  * [http://www.washingtonpost.com/local/obituaries/joe-simon-co-creator-of-the-captain-america-comics-dies-at-98/2011/12/15/gIQADjarwO_story.html](http://www.washingtonpost.com/local/obituaries/joe-simon-co-creator-of-the-captain-america-comics-dies-at-98/2011/12/15/gIQADjarwO_story.html)



The Children’s Science Fair: [Science Education and Citizenship by Sevan G. Terzian](https://books.google.ca/books?id=T3fnBEteJegC&pg=PA166&dq=children%27s+science+fair+new+york&hl=en&sa=X&ei=NokhVYXtDMHfoATuqYCIDg&redir_esc=y#v=onepage&q&f=false)

Conscientious Objectors:

  * [http://www.nebraskastudies.org/0800/stories/0801_0107.html](http://www.nebraskastudies.org/0800/frameset_reset.html?http://www.nebraskastudies.org/0800/stories/0801_0107.html)
  * [http://www.pbs.org/itvs/thegoodwar/ww2pacifists.html](http://www.pbs.org/itvs/thegoodwar/ww2pacifists.html) 



“The Dark Chain of Events to Your Kid’s Ivy League Rejection” by Stephen Mihm: [http://www.bloombergview.com/articles/2014-04-21/the-dark-chain-of-events-to-your-kid-s-harvard-rejection](http://www.bloombergview.com/articles/2014-04-21/the-dark-chain-of-events-to-your-kid-s-harvard-rejection) 

“Deep in thoughts about Bucky”: [http://marvel.wikia.com/Avengers_Vol_1_56](http://marvel.wikia.com/Avengers_Vol_1_56) 

"Every Bar Mitzvah A Testament to Jewish Survival” by Ed Lion: [http://www.jewishpress.com/indepth/front-page/every-bar-mitzvah-a-testament-to-jewish-survival/2014/06/25/0/?print](http://www.jewishpress.com/indepth/front-page/every-bar-mitzvah-a-testament-to-jewish-survival/2014/06/25/0/?print) 

“ _He's beautiful, no one can hurt him_ ”: [http://facelessmage.tumblr.com/post/107875287719/stoatsandwich-you-get-your-orders-i-love](http://facelessmage.tumblr.com/post/107875287719/stoatsandwich-you-get-your-orders-i-love)

Hungarian Judaism: [https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Judaism/neology.html](https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Judaism/neology.html) and [http://www.jewishgen.org/Hungary/2003nameskinga.html](http://www.jewishgen.org/Hungary/2003nameskinga.html)

Isamu Noguchi: [http://historicallyaccuratesteve.tumblr.com/post/102898750281/i-was-at-the-greater-kansas-city-japanese-cultural](http://historicallyaccuratesteve.tumblr.com/post/102898750281/i-was-at-the-greater-kansas-city-japanese-cultural)

Jewish Bucky Barnes:

  * [http://jewishbuckyy.tumblr.com/post/110195168096/okay-but-lets-talk-about-jewish-bucky-and-the-war](http://jewishbuckyy.tumblr.com/post/110195168096/okay-but-lets-talk-about-jewish-bucky-and-the-war)
  * [http://jewishbuckyy.tumblr.com/post/111661460511/are-there-any-fics-with-a-jewish-bucky](http://jewishbuckyy.tumblr.com/post/111661460511/are-there-any-fics-with-a-jewish-bucky)
  * [http://wintergaydar.tumblr.com/post/71487710917/hello-class-today-i-would-like-to-tell-you-why](http://wintergaydar.tumblr.com/post/71487710917/hello-class-today-i-would-like-to-tell-you-why)  



Lesbian and bisexual women in the Women’s Army Corps: 

  * [http://grandenchanterfiona.tumblr.com/post/111241898443/themediaandthemedici-crymetwoponds-viridieanfey\](http://grandenchanterfiona.tumblr.com/post/111241898443/themediaandthemedici-crymetwoponds-viridieanfey%5C) 
  * [http://capstellarogers.tumblr.com/post/100323813900/lgbtq-in-ww2](http://capstellarogers.tumblr.com/post/100323813900/lgbtq-in-ww2) 



Molly Picon at the Jewish Women’s Archive: [**http://jwa.org/womenofvalor/picon**](http://jwa.org/womenofvalor/picon) 

Nursing in America (pre-WWII): [http://nursingworld.org/MainMenuCategories/ANAMarketplace/ANAPeriodicals/OJIN/TableofContents/Vol-17-2012/No2-May-2012/Private-Duty-Registry-System-1900-1940.html](http://nursingworld.org/MainMenuCategories/ANAMarketplace/ANAPeriodicals/OJIN/TableofContents/Vol-17-2012/No2-May-2012/Private-Duty-Registry-System-1900-1940.html) 

“Sadist Rumlow”: Meta for “Sadist Rumlow” originated with [drop-deaddream](drop-deaddream.tumblr.com)/[dropdeaddream](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dropdeaddream/pseuds/dropdeaddream) at [drop-deaddream.tumblr.com/tagged/sadist-rumlow-post](http://drop-deaddream.tumblr.com/tagged/sadist-rumlow-post)

Steve Rogers’s apartment: [http://the-steve-bucky-ship.tumblr.com/post/107707829038/i-should-be-working-but-instead-i-am-thinking](http://the-steve-bucky-ship.tumblr.com/post/107707829038/i-should-be-working-but-instead-i-am-thinking) 

Steve Rogers and bisexual identity: [http://greekamazon.tumblr.com/post/108329444170/stuffimgoingtohellfor-alenie-stucky-trash](http://greekamazon.tumblr.com/post/108329444170/stuffimgoingtohellfor-alenie-stucky-trash) 

Steve Rogers and disability: 

  * [http://keeperofthehens.tumblr.com/post/82600028686/raygender-can-we-please-make-the-idea-of-steve](http://keeperofthehens.tumblr.com/post/82600028686/raygender-can-we-please-make-the-idea-of-steve)
  * [http://glutenfreewaffles.tumblr.com/post/83858818537/ps-here-are-some-stats-about-steve-from-his](http://glutenfreewaffles.tumblr.com/post/83858818537/ps-here-are-some-stats-about-steve-from-his)



Winifred Barnes and socialism: [http://pewpewlazernipples.tumblr.com/post/103179373517/marxvx-the-erasure-of-the-american-jewish-left](http://pewpewlazernipples.tumblr.com/post/103179373517/marxvx-the-erasure-of-the-american-jewish-left)

The Winter Soldier looking down alleyways for Steve: [http://effieactress.tumblr.com/post/87832896371/thedoctorknows-sebastillestans-i-was](http://effieactress.tumblr.com/post/87832896371/thedoctorknows-sebastillestans-i-was) 

 


End file.
